


Inshêt zahrar (Searching for Home)

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Khuzdul, Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Amputation, Angst, Awkward Romance, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragons are magic, Drama & Romance, Durin Family Feels, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dworin feels in 52, Elf Culture & Customs, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Family Secrets, Female Dori, Female Friendship, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mental Instability, POV Alternating, Quenya, Sibling Bonding, Sindarin, Story within a Story, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole, Trust Issues, late-stage KiOri, post-BotFA life in Erebor, references to the wider Tolkien world, sideships do occur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2018-07-14 20:50:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 69
Words: 397,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7189718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first stones in the path of Thorin Oakenshield's Quest for Erebor were laid centuries before his birth, and some of the last ripples of influence were made by the pebble who would become his mother.<br/>Darkness is creeping back into the world, ever so slowly, and the Past casts long shadows in the hearts of Dwarrow, Men, and Elves.</p><p>Follow the Quest as it unfolds, as choices made long ago come back to haunt the footsteps of those who are not even aware they once existed. Some stories, which should have been told, are kept secret, but some secrets do not remain so; however well-meaning their keepers.</p><p>"Even the very wise cannot see all ends."</p><p>With a little understanding, a touch of mercy, many things might be different in the lives of the Children of Mahal.<br/>A story of courage, love, and consequences.<br/>This story focuses on the events of the Hobbit, with a multitude of side-stories forming the rest of the series.</p><p>For Azi, who always loved a good story and enjoyed the previews enough for me to post it here. I hope you like it, ye crazy Scotsman!<br/>The Rewrite/Editing effort has completed chapter 4 @ 06-06-2018</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting under Mountains

**Author's Note:**

> I will attempt to provide translations for any Khuzdul or Sindarin usage through notes at the bottom of chapters. You can click the number to jump to translations and the same number in the notes to jump back.  
> I have attempted to use Tolkien's preferred plural for dwarf, dwarrow. This means that when referring to someone's race/culture, the adjective will be Dwarrow, but when referring to objects in the style of Dwarrow, adjective is Dwarven. The word dwarf/dwarrow will also refer to male members of the race, much as man/men, while Man/Men refers to the race or characteristics thereof.  
> Sindarin is mostly based on the lovely works of dreamingfifi at realelvish.net.  
> Khuzdul has been put together via usage of the Dwarrow Scholar's dictionaries and supportive documents.  
> Khuzdul is marked with **bold** and Sindarin/Silvan/Quenya with _cursive._  
>   
>  If anyone has a suggestion for a better summary, do tell! :)  
> This will be based on the movies for a great deal, as I have misplaced my book *hangs head in shame* and only remember snippets.
> 
> Do comment if you feel like something should be expanded/explained... it tends to give birth to the small sidestories I post.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bilbo finds something he did not expect - or perhaps, rather, in which Bilbo is found by an unexpected entity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my original idea, this story was going to be Bagginshield slowburn, a thought that lasted roughly until I began writing chapter two... Dwalin simply entered from stage left and was all MINE! And who would dare argue with him? Certainly not me, who is most commonly described as dainty. Instead, you can have established relationship with a fair bit of angsting, as well as some random moments of perhaps-unexpected tenderness.  
> I will attempt to make the characters individuals, and provide reasonable(at least in the character's own view) explanations for their actions.  
> I also warn readers that the pov will shift around a lot, which might be confusing, but a rule of thumb would be that the horisontal line breaks are timeskips or pov change, and most changes should be obvious as to which character is speaking/thinking. Some authors manage successfully to write entirely from the outside, or entirely from one character's mind, but I am not capable of that, sadly, and you will have to bear with me as I explore this 'verse.  
> Edited: 08-04-2017

“Wake up, little Hobbit. This is not a good place to be unconscious.”

Bilbo didn’t recognize the low voice and just groaned pitifully in response. He felt heavy, as if his bones had been replaced with metal and were weighing him down. The ground was hard beneath him and sharp rocks seemed to burrow into his spine. This was definitely not his soft featherbed in Bag End. Bilbo couldn’t seem to find it in himself to care overmuch about such trivial matters as unknown voices and uncomfortable surroundings.

“I’m quite serious, Master Hobbit; I need you to wake up now.” A palm gently tapping against his cheek was the next thing to register to Bilbo’s battered senses, trying to coax him back to wakefulness. Bilbo struggled masterfully. Waking up was entirely too much hassle, couldn’t the voice understand that? “Come on, open those eyes, there we go.”

Bilbo finally managed to obey the commanding tone and looked dazedly at the speaker. His vision was blurry and the light coming off the lichen on the walls was very dim. He managed to make out the shape of braids framing the face in front of him and the silhouette of a bow poking over the figure’s shoulder. _Did Kíli fall too? But that’s not his voice…_

“Well done. Next, we’ll work on getting upright, aye?” Softly encouraging words made their way through the clouds in his mind. “You’re not gravely injured from the fall,” the near-invisible figure told him, “though I don’t know if you’re concussed.” That thought seemed to cause his new… friend, maybe?... some disquiet. “You haven’t got any obvious wounds, though,” they continued, which was reassuring, at least; Bilbo felt sore all over. “I think you’re merely dazed and probably confused. I need to get you up, so I can get you out of here and check properly.”

A blurry shape, slowly identifiable to Bilbo’s brain as a hand, was stretched towards him, ready to help him to his feet. A long moment passed until the hobbit realised that he ought to grab the proffered hand. The world spun, and the stranger wrapped an arm around Bilbo’s back, keeping him standing even though he couldn’t seem to stop listing sideways into the side of his apparent saviour.

“Good. Let’s try walking now.”

They managed a few wobbly steps, Bilbo’s head still spinning. The low voice of the stranger seemed to wrap around him like a caress, something that made him feel inherently _safe_. It took him a fair while to realise that there was a question being asked and that he should probably verbalize a response.

“Come on, Master Hobbit, it’s not a difficult question, where were you trying to go?” The stranger, whom he still couldn’t see clearly, but could feel was wearing soft leather, was looking at him expectantly. Bilbo knew that he should have an answer to this but only managed a sort of incoherent mumble. The voice tried again, “I can take you to Imladris, though it’s a few days of travel from here, or I can take you East towards Mirkwood… This level of tunnels is relatively safe and we should be able to avoid the Goblin filth either way. Which will it be?”

Bilbo gave another valiant attempt at speech, but the sentence that should have been ‘I want to go East with my dwarves’ came out as a garbled “-st it dwarfs.”

The little Hobbit had never missed his home more than in this moment when he was cold, tired and in more pain than he’d ever been before. The only saving grace was that he didn’t currently seem to be in any danger, which, after being chased by orcs, captured by Goblins and walking through mountains that moved, seemed a rather novel state of being. He tried to make out more of the features of his companion but had to give up in the low light. It was rather taller than him, which did not narrow down the races of Middle Earth terribly. Instead he simply decided to go with his gut feeling of safety which seemed to emanate from the presence beside him.

“You’re looking for dwarrow?” the saviour sounded surprised. Bilbo nodded. The strong grip on his shoulders kept him from falling onto his face. “I guess that means east towards the Iron Hills…” his companion mumbled to themselves, raising their voice slightly to ask, “did you have no companions?” Bilbo wanted to nod again, but remembered his last attempt and stopped himself. “That is a very long trip for a lone Hobbit,” the person beside him mused. “I suppose you could be looking for Erebor, but it’s been many a year since there were Dwarrow dwelling there… No matter, I will take you East.” The voice sounded a bit worried but also slightly amused. “It is not that far to the tunnel exit, less than a day’s walking.”

In a distant corner of his mind, Bilbo was rather proud of achieving some sort of forward motion, even if that mostly consisted of leaning on the stranger and letting him take most of his weight. The world really should stop spinning around like it seemed to be doing, he thought. Tunnels ought to stay level, not wobble around. It was hardly sporting to anyone trying to traverse them, let alone a gentle-hobbit who wasn’t used to rock tunnels in the first place.

After an indeterminable walk, including a few stubbed toes and near-falls, Bilbo realised that the spinning had stopped. He slowly gained more confidence in his own hairy feet and his ability to stay on them.

“You seem somewhat improved now, Master Hobbit,” his saviour remarked. “Might I ask your name? It seems only fair that travel companions should know each other.” A ghost of a laugh was hidden in the sentence, and Bilbo was inexplicably cheered. He might be stuck in damp, dark, Goblin-infested tunnels, separated from a Company of Dwarrow who weren’t all that fond of his presence to begin with, but at least he was not _alone_.

“Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire,” he replied, belatedly remembering that bowing was a bad plan. “Who are you?” he asked, when he had been stood upright once more, the stranger kindly ignoring his wobbly balance and the way he leaned on them. “You seem to know the way, but you could hardly live here,” Bilbo explained, “Goblin Town is not a safe place to spend time.”

“Live here?” the stranger snorted, chuckling to themselves as they repeated the phrase, nearly trembling with laughter. “Amad would come back from the dead and kill me if I decided to live with such filth,” they chuckled, seeming to sober at the thought. “No, Master Baggins,” they said quietly, “I was merely travelling. I know these tunnels quite well and there are safe passages which cut the travel time through the Misty Mountains down considerably if one knows how to find them.”

“How do you know?” Bilbo wondered, remembering himself, Ori, and Balin elbow-deep in maps in Lord Elrond’s Library, trying to study the route they would be taking. There had been no underground tunnels marked on any maps he had seen, Bilbo was certain.

“Once,” the stranger said, their voice soft with something Bilbo would almost have called grief, “these paths were filled with light; they were the Deep Roads of my people, linking our greatest city with places all along the range of the Misty Mountains.”

“You’re a Dwarf?” Bilbo asked, baffled. He couldn’t imagine anyone else tunnelling through a mountain range to make roads, even if the stranger was too tall to be a dwarf.

“I am,” they replied, though Bilbo had the feeling there was something in the confirmation he was missing; they sounded amused again. “I have had many names, but if you travel with dwarrow, perhaps I should introduce myself in that fashion. Geira, daughter of Narví, at your service,” she – for she must be a she then, as a daughter, even though Bilbo did not think he’d ever meet a female dwarf who’d admit it on the road – bowed, “You can also call me Ilsamirë as the Elves of the Westerlands do, and I was journeying to Imladris when I saw you.” Her arm came back to steady him, gentle pressure getting them moving once more. Bilbo’s mind spun slowly. A Dwarf visiting Rivendell freely seemed incongruent with the way Thorin Oakenshield had described the relationship between the two peoples. “It has been a long time since I last spoke with a Hobbit, Master Baggins,” Geira said, interrupting his thoughts. “Tell me of your home; is the Shire still as lush and green as I remember?”

“You’ve been to the Shire?” Bilbo asked, the mystery of his saviour only growing with her answer.

“Indeed,” Bilbo could hear the smile in his companion’s voice. “I lived in the West Farthing for a few years once.”

 

The next hour was spent telling stories about the Shire, Bilbo’s prize-winning tomatoes, and his trusted gardener. Once that topic had been covered sufficiently, Bilbo began the tale of how he had joined the Company of Thorin Oakenshield though he carefully did not mention their purpose.

Eventually, he realised that he was walking under his own power and that his saviour merely had an arm near him in case he stumbled. In truth he felt quite alright now.

Bilbo had lost all sense of time, even though his stomach finally decided to wake up and crave some sustenance.

“If you are hungry, Master Baggins, I have some lembas breads,” Geira offered. “If I remember correctly Hobbits are always hungry, and you have had very little food today.” Bilbo nodded, blushing when his empty stomach growled, but Geira simply chuckled and told him to take a rest.

Pulling her pack from her shoulders – the light was still too dim to see clearly, but her bulk suddenly split in two – Geira handed him a leaf-wrapped parcel that opened to reveal a small flat tasty loaf of bread, shaped like a square. The hobbit bit into the strange food excitedly and easily devoured the Elvish waybread.

“You know they say one bite is enough to fill a grown Man’s stomach,” Geira laughed, but she let him eat a whole package anyway, so Bilbo didn’t know if she was serious about that.

After his meal, he got back on his feet, longing for a post food nap, but knowing that they had to move on.

“The tunnel narrows soon, you will have to walk behind me,” Geira said, when they had walked what Bilbo thought was another mile. “The lichen will also stop growing, so you had best hold on to my belt as you cannot see in the dark.” By now, he was reasonably certain he was indeed following a dwarf, even if the height was wrong – she was at least a head taller than even Kíli, who had been the tallest dwarf he’d ever met – a Man or an Elf would not have been able to see in the dark either. He was glad of the warning as they seemingly plunged into impenetrable darkness from one step to the next. Bilbo scrambled to do as he was told, securing his hand to the soft leather strap. “Keep quiet, this tunnel gets close to the ones the Goblins use.”

Those were the last words the Hobbit heard from his companion for hours thereafter. The trek became an interminable amount of time spent simply putting one foot ahead of the other and following Geira’s warm form. The darkness was a comfort even if Bilbo did not consciously realise that it meant Goblins were not close; his sword did not shine blue.

Eventually, just as Bilbo’s desire to yell or do _something_ to break the surrounding silence and darkness reached critical levels, Geira spoke once more.

“Not far now, Master Baggins,” she whispered. “You’ll be outside in an hour or so.”

It seemed like forever.

 

Geira’s prediction proved true; turning a bend in the tunnel, Bilbo spotted the welcome light of the sun, lessening the darkness as they walked through a small cave, the tunnel concealed as no more than a narrow crack in the rock as soon as they left it.

Finally, he stepped outside, immediately enveloped in glorious sunshine. Bilbo closed his eyes and took a second simply to bask in the warmth. His toes curled into the soft grass that sloped downwards from the mountainside, happy to be away from the stone. Hobbit feet were tough and although the tunnel they had walked through was mostly smooth and his saviour had steered him away from the scattered rocks that littered it, they still felt the strain of the rough terrains he had traversed the last few days.

“I hope your Dwarrow companions have enough stone sense between them to get here too,” Geira said, making Bilbo’s eyes snap open. “I suggest we take cover in those trees, Master Baggins, and wait for them.” The dwarf still had her back towards Bilbo as she pointed to a collection of birch trees not far ahead. “It is not wise to linger where Goblins might see even if they shun the light of the Sun when they can.”

“Stone sense?” he repeated, feeling slightly discombobulated by the sudden return of his vision. “And please call me Bilbo. You saved me, and I would like to call us friends.

Geira strode ahead, calling back over her shoulder, “A Dwarf, Bilbo, is born with an innate sense of stone. Much like the Elves can listen to the trees around them, a Dwarf can sense the stone and the earth moving around him. It means that Dwarrow rarely get lost underground. In fact, you could go so far as to say that a dwarf who gets lost underground would be mocked quite severely. Of course, some dwarrow have stronger senses than others, but it’s incredibly rare for a dwarf to be born stone-blind. Mahal’s gift to his Children lies in a deep connection to the land around them. Some have the skill to sense seams of precious metal and gems running through the rock, while others might be able to spot fault lines and weaknesses by touch.”

Dropping her pack beneath a slender tree and pulling out a pipe, Geira stuffed it solemnly then handed it to Bilbo her pipe in offering. Passing the pipe back and forth languidly, blowing smoke rings, they enjoyed the warmth of the Sun shining through the leaves. Geira’s eyes were closed, and Bilbo relaxed next to her, silently smoking and observing his rescuer. The dwarf had silvery shining hair, intricately braided. Oddly enough she didn’t have a beard at all, not even the scruff Kíli called a beard. She was dressed in leather armour over a green tunic, ring-mail sleeves shining in the low sun. Her cloak was a green-brown-grey colour that seemed to change as the light hit it and she truly looked more like she belonged in a forest than a mountain.

Then Bilbo noticed the ears.

“You’re…an Elf? A _girl_ Elf.” Bilbo was flabbergasted. None of the Elves he’d seen in Rivendell had been so short as to be taken for Dwarrow in the dark.

“The word is elleth, Master Bilbo, and the answer is both yes and no.” Geira’s voice was light with suppressed mirth. “I am a peredhel. Half-elven. It means I am both Elf and Dwarf. I live the life of an Elf, but my mother was a Dwarf,” she pointed at her head, “hence the braids and the smoking,” she winked mischievously at him. Bilbo laughed almost despite himself, trying to imagine Lord Elrond with a pipe – he had seen Gandalf smoking in Rivendell, but the Elves had not appeared to approve greatly.

“I didn’t think Elves and… Dwarrow?” Bilbo asked, the unfamiliar plural she had used sitting oddly on his tongue; he had always though it was dwarves, “liked each other enough for…” he made a slightly choked off sound and gesture at her in lieu of finishing his sentence, an image of the incompatibility of souch a couple burning in his mind and colouring his cheeks crimson.

Geira laughed. “There is long-lasting enmity between the Dwarrow and the Eldar, you are correct,” she said, sobering suddenly. “I have met only two who have known of a pairing like my parents’, and in all my lifetime I have never met another who shares my heritage.” Mirth had fled, and Bilbo instinctively felt that the topic of her mixed blood was fraught with pitfalls. Humming noncommittally, he puffed once more on the pipe, passing it to his companion in silence. Leaning back against the tree, Bilbo was content to enjoy the sun and the sound of birds singing. His eyes closed and he was soon asleep.

Geira continued smoking, her gaze sweeping across the land as she observed her new friend. He was unlike Hobbits she had met – even the adventurous Belladonna Took, whom Elladan and Elrohir had told her of had not been this far east. No Hobbit had crossed the Misty Mountains since the Wandering Years.

After an hour, she woke Bilbo gently, offering him more food and drink. The two enjoyed another quiet meal in the bright sunshine before Bilbo lay down for another nap.  Geira remained awake and on watch, her attention fixed on the mountainside where she knew the Goblins had their ‘Back Door’.

 

* * *

 

 

Suddenly, a troop of Dwarrow burst from the mountain. At the head of the gathering, the tall shape and pointy grey hat of Gandalf was unmistakable. Bilbo startled awake

“…12, 13, WHERE’S BILBO?!” Gandalf finished his rapid head count just as Geira got to her feet. Bilbo blinked at them all, looking bruised and much worse for wear, but _everyone_ was there – a sight he had not expected to see again.

“I saw him fall as the Goblins were rounding us up,” Nori croaked out, wheezing from the impact of a heavy beam and an even heavier Goblin King on his chest. Dwalin sheepishly set him back on his feet, and the Thief gave him a pat of gratitude. He had expected to be left under the beams, crushed to death, but the combined strength of Dori, Dwalin and Thorin had been enough to get him out. “He must still be in there,” Nori continued reluctantly, looking around the group of dwarrow.

“Uncle! We have to go back for him!” Kíli turned pleading puppy eyes on Thorin, already glistening with tears at the thought of what horrors could have befallen the little Hobbit burglar. Beside him, Fíli nodded. The two Princes had become quite fond of Master Boggins, especially after the Troll Incident. The rest of the Company started shouting

Thorin felt stricken, his mouth set in harsh lines. He looked back at the mountain entrance, from which they could hear Goblins hissing curses as they avoided the sunlight. Thorin sighed, taking a step back towards the dark maw they had just escaped. He knew going back for the small Hobbit was suicide – at best, they would lose several lives in the attempt.

Opening his mouth, he tried to say something comforting about the Hobbit making his way back to Rivendell, even if he knew it would placate neither his nephews’ hearts nor his own. Once, he had told the Wizard that he would not be responsible for the fate of the Hobbit, but Thorin felt responsible nonetheless for dragging the soft creature into such peril.

Instead, to his surprise, Thorin heard another voice answer Kíli’s plea.

 

“ **Ikhli** , **u’zaghith**[1]. The Hobbit was with me and I lead him out safely.” Geira spoke softly, yet her voice penetrated the din of shouting dwarrow easily. Bilbo was impressed, both with his saviour and with the speed with which the Company whirled around to face her, leaning against a tree and watching the flustered dwarrow with soft amusement shining in her blue eyes. Geira laughed, that odd Elvish laugh, which made the world seem a little brighter around her. “ **Ikhlî, shaktân**[2],” she said, smiling. The gaping Company simply stared. Bilbo felt a little self-conscious, wondering just how battered he really looked after his tumble down the chasm in Goblin Town. “I mean you no harm,” Geira continued, bringing her hand up, making a fist in front of her chest and bowed. “I am Geira, daughter of Narví.”

Bifur mumbled something no one paid attention to. Gandalf bowed to her, which seemed to floor the Company even more than the sudden appearance of their Burglar. They stared at the stranger in their midst. Shiny mithril hair tumbling down her back in intricate braids, beads winking in the sunlight, and dressed in leather and mail, she looked like one of their warrior queens of legend, even without a beard. At her sides were strapped a pair of twin swords and on her back she carried a fine bow and a quiver of arrows. Blue eyes twinkled back at them. The beads in her hair were decorated with Khuzdul runes and her braids proclaimed her a master jeweller as well as a Daughter of the House of Durin. The last bit seemed to be what puzzled Balin and Thorin the most as she spoke, soft Elvish lilt spilling from her lips.

“Mithrandir, _mae g’ovannen, mellon-nîn_ ,” Geira said gently. “ _Êl síla lû e-govaned ’wìn_.[3]”

“Dear Lady Ilsamirë,” Geandalf replied in Common Westron. “It has been many a year since last we met; this is indeed a pleasant surprise.”

“Mithrandir, you old flatterer, it has indeed been far too long,” Geira replied, giving the tall wizard a sunny smile and laughing brightly.  Bilbo’s dwarrow were still in the process of picking up their jaws, although a fair few lost them again at that point. Not many people would dare laugh at a wizard. Ori cautiously inched away from Gandalf’s staff, but the wizard just smiled serenely, looking for all the world like a benevolent grandfather.

“I thought you dwelt in Lothlórien these days, beautiful Silver Lady?” he asked, bushy brows frowning above brilliantly blue eyes. Geira nodded.

“I was on my way to Imladris,” she said, shrugging one shoulder, “when I met young Bilbo here,” the Lady pointed at her Hobbit companion and continued, “poor thing fell into the tunnels below Goblin Town and got a nasty knock on his head.” Dori made a sound of concern at that, but Bilbo felt overall well, aside from the bruises that were blooming on his skin, and wave it away with a small gesture. Most of _his_ bruises were hidden by his clothes, at least, and he looked a fair bit better than the tattered and battered Dwarrow standing before him. “You ought to take better care of your pets, wizard.” Ilsamirë rebuked Gandalf softly, but her smile stayed fond and the wizard seemed to take no offense at her words.

“I thank you for your assistance, my Lady,” he replied gravely, “I don’t wish to dwell on what might have happened if you had not happened by.”

“Bilbo took a goblin with him in his tumble down the cliff side,” Geira revealed, startling Bilbo who hadn’t spared even a thought for the reason for his fall. “It had died from a bashed in skull by the time I found him, however,” Geira continued, “he was very lucky to survive the fall.”

“Who are you?” Thorin asked, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be the leader of their Company.

Geira turned to face the Company once more, smiling at him in a way that seemed far too fond for a complete stranger. “ **E gêdul d’abdukh astni,**[4]” she said, nodding at Thorin, who stiffened. Around him, jaws made contact with the ground, but Geira ignored the Company’s incredulous stares. “What are dwarrow doing coming through the Misty Mountains?” she continued. “You are obviously not a trade expedition.”

Bofur began saying something, possibly trying to spin a more successful tale than the one they had tried to feed the Goblin King, but a warg’s howl interrupted the cosy chatting.

“Run!” Thorin cried, grabbing his nephew by the scruff of his neck and pushing him ahead.

They ran.

Azog followed. **  
**

 

 

[1] Peace, young warrior.

[2] Peace, kinsmen.

[3] Well met, Gandalf, my friend. A star shines upon the hour of our meeting.

[4] I am happy to meet you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise that Azog actually died at Azanulbizar (go Dáin!) but I can't be bothered changing the name, so for all intents and purposes, Dáin killed Azog's father, though Azog was the one to kill Thrór. Thrór's death occurred in bookverse, so did Thráin's disappearance (and death, but Thorin doesn't believe he died, only that he's missing). Bolg will make an appearance later on as well, because he's so delightfully useful and because I loved the way he was portrayed in the film.
> 
> Names, especially Elven names, will change during the story, reflecting on the different names given throughout the life of an elf:  
> Father-names, given at birth, usually parent's name plus -ion/-iel, ie Thranduilion - son of Thranduil.  
> Mother-names, given at birth by the mother if she has a vision of her child's future or personality uring the hour of the birth, ie Nerwen - man-maiden, aka Galadriel, whose mother knew she'd be as tall, fast and strong as a man.  
> Epesse, earned/given names: These are given by close friends of family/spouses, not parents.  
> Chosen-names: Mainly a custom of the Noldor, these are names chosen by the elf in question and referring to their personality or traits. These are quite personal, and using them signifies a deep relationship unless the elf uses it as his only name; in which case less intimate acquaintances would probably still use the father-name.  
> This is the reason that throughout the series, Ilsamirë herself - and possibly other Elves - will be referred to by different names based on the speaker's relationship with them.
> 
> Dwarrow also have several names:  
> the Outername, ie Thorin.  
> the Epiteth, ie Oakenshield  
> and the Inner Name /Deep Heart Name, which is either given at birth by the mother or chosen upon reaching adulthood by the Dwarf. These are always in Khuzdul, and describe traits or hopes for the particular Dwarf.  
> I have a list of all the names I've chosen for the Company which might be published some day, though we don't have official Deep Names for them apart from the fragment Darer(Uthran) for Thorin.  
> can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9829256)


	2. Bruises and Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which questions are asked, ignored, and evaded, and Thorin is unintentionally drugged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edited: 10-04-18

_There was pain._

_Thorin wondered if dying was really supposed to hurt this much._

_In fact, seeing the blade-wielding orc coming to cut his head off had reassured him that he would feel little. He spared spare a thought for his nephews and lamented that they would watch him slain as he had watched Frerin – helpless to stop the coming death and screaming in denial._

_Dwalin’s face swam in front of his eye and he smiled at his fierce scowl. Dwalin would never forgive him for his reckless sacrifice, but he would understand the need for vengeance for the fallen. Orcs had killed Thrór, sparking the war that killed so many of their already diminished kin, orcs had been responsible for his brother’s death. Bright happy Frerin, who resembled Fíli so closely that it hurt to look at the nephew at times, remembering the one who should have been with them._

_A flash of red crossed his vision, but Thorin paid it no mind among the black spots that were already dancing there. He knew that his lungs were not working right, the lack of oxygen making him see things. That was the only explanation for the hallucination of their sweet little hobbit standing over him, snarling fit for an orc and waving his small shining blade in a way that made it obvious he had no training in its use. Thorin almost smiled._

_Distantly he heard the roar that could only be Dwalin in the grip of battle-rage, and the smile deepened; became love rather than amusement. So often, that sound had been the sweetest music on the field, knowing that the one he called amrâlimê was near._

_Dwalin’s wild eyes, his fierce snarl, his loving smile, followed him into the darkness._

_“ **Shosh, mahabbanûnith **[5]**.** ” The words were soft as a whisper, and Thorin thought he could hear the voice of his amad. _

_“Kun, Amad,” he said, smiling at the thought that she would be there to welcome him to the Halls of Waiting. More words followed, gentle as ripples across a pond, but they meant nothing to Thorin. Warmth spread through his body, making the pain recede slightly. A hand was on his forehead, the other pressing softly against the side the warg had chewed. The darkness drew back, leaving brightness behind. A figure shone brightly before him, chasing away the shadows._

“…Amad?”

Thorin blinked.

Slowly, his eyes focussed past silvery hair – _wasn’t it supposed to be gold?_ – to land on Gandalf’s wrinkled visage, silently asking for answers.

“Thorin,” the wizard smiled.

A gentle pressure disappeared from his chest, though Thorin barely noticed the disappearance of Bilbo’s elf rescuer, the pain of his injures making itself known. Halfway in his view, the shiny head of the elf who claimed to be a Dwarf moved across the flat plateau, murmuring something at an… _eagle? Why were they surrounded by eagles?_ Her hands scratched into the neck-feathers of one of them, making the grand bird preen and nudge her happily.

Moving his head slightly, he found Dwalin, his teeth clenched and his eyes dark in a way that made Thorin wince. He had known the warg broke his ribs, had felt each sharp crack as the thin bones snapped, and he had felt the end of one bone stabbing into his lung, felt his mouth well with blood for a moment before unconsciousness claimed him. A thought surfaced, a flash of red cloth and a streak of blueish light appearing in his mind – the last glimpse he had caught through the rapidly encroaching blackness.

“The…the Hobbit?” Thorin spoke softly, half expecting his lungs to fail at pressing the words across his lips. _Had the creature he had so disdained truly attempted to save him despite his ineptitude as a fighter?_ He winced slightly. No longer suffering broken ribs and his lungs were in working order, but Thorin _ached_. There were definitely still cracked ribs beneath the heavy bruising that made itself known with each move he made.

“He’s fine, Bilbo is just fine,” Gandalf smiled, waving towards the little creature in his stained red dinner jacket. Thorin got to his feet gingerly. Fíli slipped under his arm to steady his footing, but Thorin felt surprisingly capable of motion; whatever the wizard had wrought, the magic had healed him to an astonishing degree.

“ **Zantulbasn mazannagûn, **[6]**** ” he growled, striding determinedly towards the small Hobbit who was watching the Elf sit next to the Eagle with a fascinated expression and did not hear him.

 

 

Making their way down from the Carrock, gingerly moving around various injuries, the Company were exhausted when they reached the small stream that ran along its base. Gandalf led them along the stream until it widened into a shallow river, a shallow bend forming a natural pool.

On the bank, they set up what bedrolls remained to them, taking care of injuries to the extent Óin’s pilfered supplies allowed, eating watercress and a few plants foraged by the least injured. As the only one who had managed to keep hold of all her supplies, Geira shared what lembas she had left with the dwarrow around her. Glóin and Ori looked at the leaf-wrapped breads suspiciously, but were eventually convinced by their rumbling stomachs to at least try a bite. The young princes ventured to share a slice, and then darted back to the company of their Uncle, swarming around him like worried chicks. Thorin hid the winces his painful wounds produced, trying to deflate Dwalin’s righteous anger by playing down his injuries. Gandalf’s magic – plus whatever the strange peredhel had done – had helped some, but the dwarf was still in poor shape. When the haze of unconsciousness had left him and he’d caught sight of the grey pallor to his beloved’s face, Thorin could feel only shame for his actions. He had not even considered what his death, which had been a certainty if not for a certain Hobbit, would do to the Company, let alone the Dwarf who loved him. The thought of his nephews’ worried face and their present need for comfort only added to the shame.

 

Thorin felt a little woozy still; sheer stubbornness had allowed him to get down from the Carrock without fainting from lack of air. He might not have broken ribs, but a few were definitely cracked if he was any judge, and the bruises marking most of his torso did not make breathing any easier.

Stalking along the riverbank, as swiftly as his battered body could manage, Thorin stopped beside Geira, who was washing her face and splashing cool water on her neck. He wanted answers.

“Who are you?” he asked harshly, reassured when he felt Dwalin’s solid bulk take up position at his back. The warrior had been keeping his distance since the Carrock, and Thorin knew he had scared him; Dwalin retreated into himself when he needed to think, but he’d still never let his King approach an unknown stranger without backup – injuries or no.

“A friend,” she replied softly, not looking up at him, a braid marked with an ancient-looking bead of Durin swinging over her shoulder. Thorin stared. “I have many names, Thorin Oakenshield, and perhaps I will tell you my story one day… for now, however, accept that I wish no harm to you or yours.”

Thorin found himself gaping at the audacity of one of his travel-companions, watching her walk away from him, mithril braids swaying with each step. _How dare an **Elf** of all people speak their sacred words and wear braids proclaiming her a member of **his** line?_ He growled, but Dwalin’s hand on his arm stayed the harsh words he would have shouted after her.

“I want to know who she is, Dwalin, and how she came to be here!” Thorin ranted, something about her deeply unsettling to him. “Why is she following us?” The safety of the entire Company was _his_ responsibility, and allowing a complete stranger to travel with them for an unknown length of time did not seem wise. He did not entirely manage to convince himself that his misgivings were quite so responsible; a deeply rooted part of him knew that his mistrust was based on his mistrust of her people in general – claiming his kinship by the beads in her hair and the plaits that marked her a Master Craftsman several times over in the ways of their people did not make him any less suspicious of her motives or sudden appearance.

“I don’t know, Thorin, but she does not seem to want to hinder our purpose,” Dwalin replied slowly, staring after the Elf, too. “She fought the Orcs alongside us, and she saved Bilbo from Goblins. For now, I think she may be right to call herself our friend…” Dwalin trailed off. Thorin remained unconvinced. The Guard-Captain sighed. “I’ll get Nori to ferret out some answers for you, my King.” Thorin nodded, but he was not appeased, and mentally he cast about for another source of the answers he sought.

 

When Thorin finally managed to corner Gandalf by the riverbank, his temper was roiling in his blood and all he could think about was demanding some answers about their newest travel companion

“Tharkûn!” he hissed. “Who is this Elf that knows our tongue?!” Keeping his voice low, he had to abort the accompanying gesture with a low moan of agony as a spike of red pain pierced his side.

“Her story is not mine to tell,” the wizard said calmly, stuffing his pipe and looking pensively at the spectacle that was Kíli trying to dunk his brother under the water. “She is known to me as Lady Ilsamirë of Lothlórien, and I have long considered her a friend,” he paused delicately, but Thorin waved him on impatiently. “She would be _your_ friend if you let her, Thorin,” Gandalf said, though Thorin was left with an unsettling feeling that that had not been the wizard’s intended words. He scowled. Gandalf ignored his expression entirely, solemnly stuffing his pipe. “If you want to know more, however, you will have to ask her. She has earned the right to her braids, though, you will find.” Thorin stared. He hadn’t believed that the Elf could be what she claimed: a dwarrowdam.

“How does a dwarrowdam become a Lady of an accursed Elf forest?!” he asked, slightly horrified as questions involving dark magic rose up in his mind. “For that matter, how did she end up _looking_ like one?”  

“I will promise you only that she bears you no ill will, and warn you that she could be of great aid to your quest,” Gandalf said, his countenance clearly stating that the topic would not be discussed further. Thorin glared. The wizard sighed, relenting slightly. “I had not thought to ask for her aid,” he admitted, staring south, “for Lothlórien is far out of our way.”

Thorin opened his mouth to protest, but the wizard held up his hand, a faraway look in his eyes. Thorin scowled at the wizard, whose face gave away no answers.

“As I said, Master Oakenshield, you will have to ask her for her story.”

With that, Gandalf apparently felt the conversation had ended, for they grey-robed Maia got to his feet and left Thorin by the water’s edge to gape incredulously after him, once more taken aback by the audacity of one of his travelling companions. Someone he didn’t know was moseying her way into _his_ Quest, and the dratted wizard would not even tell him who she was? Thorin was not pleased, and his frown only grew when he caught sight of their newest member chatting lively with Bilbo.

 

The river had provided an opportunity to wash and take of their most pressing wounds, but the Company was on the move again by morning. The Eagles had taken them far from the cliffs by the Misty Mountains, but wargs were fast and the Company had no desire to tarry over-long.

Dwalin was never far from Thorin’s side, a mighty scowl pasted on his face as he walked along, his mighty shoulders drawn tight. Thorin wisely focused all his conversation on the wizard. When the Guard-Captain had that expression on his face, everyone – from the newest guard recruit to the oldest noble – left him alone.

 

Geira spent most of her time in the company of Bilbo, discussing the merits of different Hobbit pipe weed and ale, something that could easily take up hours. Bilbo almost felt like he was back at home in the Green Dragon. The rest of the dwarrow seemed to take their cue from their leader and avoided her as much as possible. Bilbo was beginning to see how they had done the same to him, when the Quest had first started. She did not seem to care overmuch, however, unlike him, appearing quite content to walk in silence if no one spoke to her or sing softly to herself in words Bilbo did not understand. It was obviously some dialect of Elvish, he could tell, but nothing more than that. He thought his mother had managed to teach him passable Sindarin – and he had tried out a few phrases successfully in Rivendell – but this girl did not speak a recognisable form of Elvish as he knew it.

 

 

As the group walked ever onwards, Ori lost his reticence in the face of overwhelming curiosity. Ignoring Dori’s wary suspicions, he began asking questions of their newest travel-mate. She freely told stories of her home in Lothlórien and even a few tales of Mirkwood and her friends in both places. Ori soaked up the tales like a sponge; a few of them might make for nice reading in the official Book of Erebor’s Reclamation – which would need a catchier title, Ori realised – even if she only travelled with them until they reached a crossway where she could return to an Elven Realm. His fingers itched for his quill-pen and ink-bottle, but unfortunately those had been in his pack and were probably broken by the Goblins. The thought made him sad; he had brought some of his best quills along, in a carrying case specially designed for master scribes to ensure his ink-bottles remained whole. He still had the sketches he had already made, as well as his notes, saved from wanton destruction only because he kept the pages tucked under his tunic, even while he slept.

 

The day warmed slowly. The Dwarrow had to admit that the silly Elf-bread did stave off their hunger; after the night of Stone-Giants and a full day inside the warren of Goblin Town, hunger had more than set in by the time Azog’s band of Orcs caught up with them. It did not mean that they trusted the one who provided the odd food, but it meant that Nori did not interfere while Ori was asking questions, simply remaining in the background gathering observations and bits of insight into this _Geira_ ’s character. So far, he liked the parts of her she allowed him to glean, though he was acutely aware that she knew he was listening – giving her opportunity to change her tales to suit the way she wanted to appear to them. Nori had learned never to take a stranger at face value and remained vigilant, even if he had to admit to himself that she seemed genuinely interested in them and their lives, asking very few questions about their purpose and seeming far more interested in life in Ered Luin. Somehow, Nori thought, some of the people Ori mentioned seemed familiar to her, a certain glint in her eyes perhaps, though nothing he could put his finger one. The unanswered questions in his mind made Nori even more wary than Dori, which was a rare feat, and the thought made him chuckle to himself though he did not share it with either of his siblings.

 

In return for Geira’s stories, Ori wove the tale of their Journey from the Shire and up to the point where they had killed the Goblin King. The elf was a good audience, gasping at the right places and chuckling at the parts he made seem far funnier than they had been to experience. The story of Bilbo’s role in the Troll Quarrel – definitely deserving of capitalisation in Ori’s mind, as a defining moment of the Quest – was taken over by the Hobbit himself, who proved to be a natural storyteller. Ori silently wondered if Master Baggins might like to help edit the rough drafts of their story some day, even though it would have to be the Westron version, as outsiders were not permitted to learn Khuzdul.

 

 

As they walked, Geira pointed out various plants to the attentive eyes of Ori and Bilbo, teaching them the uses of herbs that were unfamiliar, picking those she believed would be useful in treating the wounds sustained by the Company. Óin anticipated great need for pain- and fever-reducing teas once they finally got to a place safe enough to tend to their injuries properly. This led to a lively discussion with the old healer about healing arts in general and Elven healing skills in particular, as Geira was quite adamant that she was a fully trained healer in her own right. Nori silently added another thing to his mental character assessment.

Their debate was made more entertaining – in Nori’s watchful but unspoken opinion – by the lack of Óin’s ear trumpet.

Eventually, the healer resorted to a fairly rude sign in Iglishmêk, making Dori huff with disapproval. Nori snickered, preparing to interject a lewd comment to go with the sign, but the elleth just laughed and signed back an even ruder miner’s sign.

At that point, Bofur intervened with a lecture to the interested Bilbo about miner’s sign language and Geira disappeared into the trees and bushes, returning with a selection of early summer berries and a few plants which Óin had particularly lamented the loss of during their debate.  The treat was shared throughout the Company, even drawing a small twitch of a smile from Thorin when he was presented with a few plump blackberries, and the herbs were tied into bunches hung from her pack. Geira had rebuffed all offers of carrying the pack; dwarrow were quite valiant in their own way, and burdens ought to be shared, but as she had pointed out, she was by far the least injured of all of them.

 

When Ori’s questions finally reached a natural lull – more than a little aided by the handful of berries she had slipped him – Geira walked swiftly to the head of the group, next to the wizard and the Dwarf Prince.

“You’re bringing them to Beorn’s lands, Mithrandir?” she asked, eyeing the old wizard shrewdly.

“Yes. Radagast mentioned him to me once.” Gandalf replied lightly. Geira glanced at the dwarf beside him, who was – successfully with regards to Dwarven eyes, but not so to her Elven sight – trying to mask just how injured he truly was. She frowned lightly.

Thorin bristled at her scrutiny, taking it as disdain. He was used to being disrespected by Men and the few Elves he had met in person had not improved his view of that race either, but it galled him that someone who claimed his kinship would hardly even acknowledge his existence.

“And did Radagast tell you anything about the man?” Geira asked, turning her blue eyes back to Gandalf, who hummed hesitantly, eventually shaking his head. Geira chuckled. “You should know that Beorn has very little fondness for Dwarrow…perhaps it’s best if you let me talk to him,” she offered. “Although he dislikes the Children of Mahal, he is usually happy to see me when I come by on my journeys…”

Thorin grunted noncommittally, still more keen on getting rid of this interloper than accepting any help she might render.

“When he hears that you killed the Goblin King, he may be more sympathetic to your quest,” Geira added, ignoring Thorin’s scowl entirely. “Beorn has no love for orcs or goblins and hunts them ruthlessly when they trespass onto his lands.”

“A good point,” Gandalf agreed, nodding.

“Beorn will expect fair payment for his aid, however, if he chooses to give it,” Geira warned.

Thorin scowled again, thinking of their rapidly diminishing coin purses. Most had lost their purses along with their packs in Goblin Town, and he would be surprised if any of the Company had more gold than that which they had sewn into their clothes as insurance.

“I did know that he doesn’t like Dwarrow,” the wizard revealed, with a motion that Thorin would have called a negligent shrug on anyone else. “I was planning on only arriving with Bilbo at first. Lead up to the full Company, so to speak.”

“You have always been wily, my friend, but I doubt Beorn would appreciate that.” Geira laughed.

Once again Thorin felt the eyes of the Elf-girl roam across his battered body. He did not appreciate the sensation.

“He is not a man who accepts dishonesty in any form,” she said. “It’s part of the reason he secluded himself here rather than join a settlement of Men somewhere. Beorn prefers the company of his animals.”

“Perhaps you are right, dear one. I shall bow to your superior knowledge of the man.” Gandalf nodded, considering her advice.

“Thank you, Mithrandir,” Geira smiled. She shot Thorin a look past the wizard and continued, “I know your Company are hungry for meat, but you will find none here, and you should not hunt any beasts who roam these lands, unless you wish for a swift and painful end. Even the bees here are under his protection.” She paused slightly, lost in a long-ago memory of the ferocious Skinwalker. “It is unwise to antagonise Beorn.”

Thorin’s deepening scowl convinced her to re-join the hobbit at the back of the group, something in her eyes that he did not understand, almost looking like sorrow before it was masked by seeming indifference.

Thorin glowered all the way to Beorn’s house.

 

Reappearing at the back of the line sparked a whole new series of questions from Ori, who had had ample time to come up with new thoughts about the stories she’d told earlier as well as finding a few flowers that hadn’t been pointed out.

“ _Mellon-nîn,_ ” Geira said softly, leaning on the gate and watching the large man chopping firewood just outside his house. The giant turned slowly, grasping his axe firmly. “I am afraid I must trespass upon your hospitality.” She was aware of the Company’s stares – most were fixed on Beorn, but she felt Thorin’s barely disguised hostility keenly, his eyes boring into her back.

“Pethril,” Beorn said slowly, his deep voice soothing, “You have brought dwarrow to my lands… And a bunny, it seems,” he continued, gesturing at Bilbo. “That one is no Dwarf.”

“This is Master Baggins, a Hobbit of the Shire,” Geira replied.

Beorn nodded, his eyes roaming across the Company, who were standing behind the elleth. “The rest of your party are Dwarrow,” he said, his bushy brows furrowing, “I don’t like Dwarrow.” Baring his teeth in a slight growl, he continued, “They’re greedy creatures, and blind. Blind to the lives of those they deem lesser than their own. They care nothing for those weaker than themselves.” The words were delivered evenly, calmly, but the Company still bristled at the insult. They tended towards insularity, as a race, as long history had taught them, but –

“These dwarrow are good people,” Geira rebuked with equal calm, smothering the embers of temper Beorn’s words had set alight in her companions’ breasts. “I give you my word they will cause no trouble in your lands, old friend.” Turning back towards the Company and gesturing broadly towards their exhausted and rather grimy appearances, she continued softly, “They slew the Goblin King – Orcs are hunting them.” Beorn’s eyes widened at her words, narrowing again as he studied the group of Dwarrow still standing silently behind her. “Will you grant them sanctuary, so they may rest and heal before the next step of their journey?” Geira asked, hoping beyond hope that her long-standing friendship with the Skinwalker would grant her kinsmen this easement; they needed a safe place to recover from the trials of Goblin Town and the skirmish with the Orcs.

Beorn growled and took three swift steps until he was looming over her. The dwarrow behind her gripped their weapons in readiness, shaking off their fatigue and more than one of them made to step towards the two of them. Geira did not shy away from the massive hand coming towards her, holding out her arm for him to catch, bringing her palm to his nose as he inhaled loudly. The giant man growled again, sniffing her skin carefully – she had washed in the stream, but his sensitive nose would catch the hints of Orcs left on her, the reek of pine trees burning that still clung to her skin. The Company gaped. Geira laughed, feeling a moment of regret that she had not warned them what to expect.

“You smell of fire and blood and Orcs,” Beorn growled menacingly, “you bring dwarrow to my land who are hunted by orcs, yet you claim they will bring me no trouble?” Amused, rather than angry, he smiled. “For you, Pethril,” he rumbled loudly, raising one bushy eyebrow, “I will not kill them, but you will owe me a tale or three.”

She nodded; having little use for coin, Beorn was usually happy to listen to stories of far-off places in return for hospitality, as well as her unspoken promise that she would continue to look for any survivors of his kind on her travels. Beorn let go of her hand and picked her up in an easy hug that brought her over the low gate, smelling the different scents mingling in her hair as he did.

“So be it,” he said, looking at the bedraggled Company, “You can stay. If you truly killed the Goblin King, I will even feed you.” He looked dubious as to the veracity of that claim, but he opened the gate, setting Geira back on her feet gently.

The dwarrow slowly traipsed past the foreboding giant. Even Mithrandir seemed nervous, a reaction that wasn’t helped when Beorn stopped him easily with a hand wrapped around the wizard’s arm. “Who is this.” The question was not directed at Mithrandir, though the wizard replied, slightly shakily. Beorn’s grip was not crushing, but it had potential to be so, which was clearly felt.

“Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey.” The wizard chuckled nervously. Geira hid a smile, trying not to imagine what would have happened if Mithrandir had followed his original plan.

“Never heard of him.” Beorn scowled.

“I’m a wizard. Perhaps you’ve heard of my colleague, Radagast the Brown? He lives in the south of what was once the Great Greenwood.” Gandalf tried, but the mention of Radagast did nothing more than let Beorn release his arm without reply.

The bear of a Man looked at the Company. “And who are you all?”

Each dwarf introduced himself, but Beorn showed no reaction until Thorin said his name. Recognition sparked in the man’s eyes.

“My story, Pethril,” he said, while herding the Company closer to his house, “how did you get involved with the one they call Oakenshield? Him I have heard of.”

Entering the house, where Beorn’s dogs had laid out a meal on the long table, Geira took a seat beside their large host, watching as the Company filed in, politely washing their hands before taking a seat along the table. She had to stop herself from giggling at the sight; they mostly resembled a row of heads. Her own height at least allowed her to see over the table properly – helped by the somewhat higher chair Beorn had given her. Taking his own seat at the head of the table, Beorn waved his large hand towards the animals that quickly ladled out heaping portions for each guest. For a while, contented chewing was the only sound to fill the room, but then Geira opened her mouth, putting down her fork and began to spin the tale of meeting Bilbo under the Misty Mountains.

 

After the sumptuous meal, the least injured dwarrow found places to bed down in the barn, grateful for a bit of rest; Beorn left in his bear skin – most likely to ascertain the truth of their tale about the vile Goblin King. Óin, who lamented the loss of his hearing horn, demanded that the injured be tended, rewrapping Nori’s tender ribs and revealing Thorin’s bruised and battered torso.

“I have medicines in my pack that will help,” Geira said, unable to stop herself from worrying about the dark-haired dwarf, even if she knew he would not welcome her concern. Thorin glared at her, but Óin hummed thoughtfully, poking his King’s side and nodding to her at the resultant moan Thorin could not conceal. Flitting across the room and returning with a small earthenware pot, Geira handed the salve to the old healer before fleeing from the Thorin’s dark regard, telling herself off for cowardice even as she slipped out the door.

Óin carefully sniffed the salve, trying to ascertain the ingredients, before glancing at Thorin with a shrug and deciding to use it. After all, the girl had proven knowledgeable and he had lost his own kit in Goblin Town, so he didn’t have much choice. The old healer knew that his King would not complain of his pains, even if he should, but anything speeding up his recovery would be appreciated. He slathered a goodly amount across Thorin’s chest, making him hiss in pain. When he was done, he wrapped Thorin’s chest in a long length of linen bandage material, sending him off to bed down in the room that held the only proper bed in the house. Thorin attempted to protest, but Óin played up his deafness until he relented with a scowl.

Dwalin followed him, sharing a glance with Balin; their host might – begrudgingly – have granted them sanctuary, but he would still keep watch over Thorin.

He still did not know what to say to his Kurdel, anger swirling in his gut, mixing with heady relief and lingering fear in a noxious cocktail of emotion.

 

“What were you thinking!?” Dwalin began angrily, slamming the door behind him. The bald Dwarf paced in the large bedroom Thorin had been allotted.

Thorin could only shrug, knowing better than to interrupt the irate Dwarf, removing his boots and climbing onto the tall bed, enjoying the softness as exhaustion weighed him down.

“You would have been killed, Thorin! What did you think would happen to our family if you died?! Not to mention the Quest. Mahal’s beard, you _know_ you’re needed for that if nothing else!” Dwalin’s mind was so frayed by anger and outright terror, he could hardly keep his thoughts organised, let alone the disjointed rant that came out of his mouth. “And the lads… Thorin, you have scared _me_ that badly before, but think of what you would have done to Fíli and Kíli! And Dís! **M’imnu Durin!** ” Dwalin cursed loudly. “She would have my beard, if not my head, sending me off to the Halls myself to scold you for such utter idiocy!”

Thorin grinned softly at the thought of his sister’s temper; Dís was not the kind of dwarrowdam one angered lightly. He licked his lips, sitting on the tall bed and watched as his Kurdel’s strained temper found release. He idly wondered if it was wrong to think a Dwalin angry beyond words was as sexy as Thorin was currently thinking. His foggy thoughts – no doubt influenced by Óin’s medicine if not by the Elf’s salve – could just sing with admiration for his fierce lover.

This explosion had been building since the Carrock, where Dwalin had been too consumed by worry to brood on his anger. Thorin winced as Dwalin’s voice reached hitherto unknown levels of volume.

“ **Maralmizu, amrâlimê.** ” Thorin felt a little loopy. “ **Afsâlul** ,” Thorin mumbled, “ **Dwalinimê**.” He nodded seriously to himself. Dwalin was very sexy when he was angry.

Dwalin’s rant came to a sudden halt when Thorin began speaking. His words were slurred and Dwalin could see a line of drool making its way down his chin. Thorin just grinned loopily at him.

“Óin!” Dwalin bellowed, panicking, proving that the Company had been listening at the door when Óin came stumbling through the door within seconds. Dwalin pointed at the lolling King, who was now talking to the ornately carved bedpost. The wooden bear did not answer.

“ **Halwmugrê…** ” Thorin mumbled, patting the bear carving. Óin’s long years of experience was all that let him keep his composure. Thorin had never acted like this on poppymilk nor on any of the other common pain medicines he could dispense.

“What’s wrong with him!” Dwalin pleaded with his eyes for Óin to tell him that their King’s mind was not permanently addled.

“Dwalin… c’m’ere.” Thorin slurred, reaching for a point slightly to the left of Dwalin. “Two of yes and no kisses for me,” he mumbled. The King’s mien was turning decidedly pouty.

Dwalin gaped but made the tactical error of moving in range of Thorin’s grabby hand.

“My Dwalin,” Thorin smiled happily. “My bear. Not that bear. That bear doesn’t kiss me,” he informed the carved bedpost sadly, “You should kiss me.” He kept pulling on the speechless Dwalin, however, and the burly warrior followed.

Óin finally lost the battle with his laughter, but managed to make it outside the door before he let loose with a barrage of great guffaws that almost scared the rest of the Company. Óin was laughing so much he began wheezing before he could manage to explain his amusement.

 

Inside the room, Dwalin barely heard the door closing behind Óin, all his focus on Thorin, who was drooling a little on his bandages.

“Kisses, Dwalin,” he demanded, sounding like Kíli when he was being denied cookies until he had eaten his dinner…as a dwarfling. “Kisses, kisses, kisses,” Thorin babbled, smiling dopily at the flabbergasted warrior. The singsong repetition continued, increasingly insistent.

Dwalin felt overwhelmed; he’d been prepared for arguments, defences… but not _this_. Thorin’s pout was adorable in a way that made him want to give in – not that he didn’t _want_ to kiss Thorin most of the time, pout or no – but he had been trying to scold his reckless beloved, finding release from his own violent fear.

Thorin pulled at his hand again.

Dwalin opened his mouth to say something – _anything_ – but froze, when Thorin’s tongue swept quickly across his lips, before it made contact with one of Dwalin’s thick fingers, dragging slowly along the length of it before Thorin wrapped his lips around the knuckle, sucking lightly. His blue eyes were hazy with a peculiar innocence Dwalin couldn’t remember seeing since before Smaug attacked Erebor.

He could hardly stop himself moving to follow when Thorin leaned back with a soft groan, relaxing on the pillows and sucking Dwalin’s entire index finger into his warm mouth. A low curse escaped him; Thorin’s tongue was definitely _not_ innocent in the least, and Dwalin knew exactly how it would feel elsewhere.

‘Elsewhere’ was definitely interested in what was offered, too.

“Thorin,” Dwalin moaned low in his throat, “what are you doing?” Thorin did not reply, his tongue swirling around the tip of Dwalin’s finger.

If the Son of Durin had been less injured, Dwalin would have had no qualms giving in, but he sat carefully on the edge of the mattress, trying not to jostle Thorin’s battered torso.

“Kisses?” Thorin asked, releasing Dwalin’s finger with an obscenely loud pop. His eyes looked hopefully at the bulky dwarf sat next to him on the bed.

“Mahal wept!” Dwalin cursed, leaning down and pressing his lips gently against Thorin’s. “Happy now?” he asked, keeping a tight rein on his own desire, his earlier fear-fuelled energy turned into base lust with Thorin’s little display. _Thorin is not well,_ kept running through his mind, and the dark bruises he had seen before Óin wrapped Thorin’s torso in bandages helped stave off his desire to give in to the thoughts Thorin inspired, affirming that they were _both_ alive that way, like they had done so many times before.

The King shook his head.

“More,” he demanded, petulantly. Dwalin groaned. Thorin was not playing fair, licking his lips like _that_. “Beautiful Dwalin…my Dwalin?” he asked sweetly, pulling Dwalin’s thick digit back towards his shiny pink lips.

“Thorin, you’re injured… and whatever was in that elven medicine has addled your head. There’s no way you’re capable of ‘more’,” he growled, his voice deeper than usual by a few degrees of lust. Dwalin was startled to see the glistening sheen of tears appear in Thorin’s eyes.

“No kisses?” he asked, bearing resemblance to nothing so much as a kicked puppy. “You don’t want me!” Thorin wailed, looking so sad Dwalin had to give in and kiss that look out of his eyes. Pressing his lips firmly against Thorin’s, wrapping his fingers around those dark temple braids to keep him lying down when he tried to follow him, Dwalin pulled back with a sigh.

“Kisses!” Thorin exclaimed happily.

Dwalin hid his face in his palms, scrubbing it tightly in annoyance with himself, Thorin, and the situation in general. “A curse on Elvish medicine,” he grumbled, glaring towards the door.

It was obvious that it had worked – Thorin was not in any obvious pain – but _Dwalin_ felt sorely put-upon. Thorin grabbed his beard, his fingers unerringly finding the bead hidden beneath the bristles and pulling him back down for more kisses. The soft moan he uttered in response only made Dwalin feel worse, and his mental state was not helped by the fact that Thorin’s free hand had disappeared under the lacing of his breeches, fondling himself as he moaned into Dwalin’s mouth.

“My Dwalin,” he mumbled. Dwalin’s forehead came to rest on Thorin’s with a soft thunk. His eyes closed, as he tried to focus on his breathing, calming down by inches. Listening to Thorin’s gentle moaning was doing his own trousers no favours, turning them tighter by the second. Dwalin tried to tell himself that he was better than this, better than taking advantage of peculiar medicine to wank to the sight of his lover playing with himself. He was not sure he was convincing enough to persuade himself of that fact, and when Thorin’s lips found his once more, Dwalin flowed into the kiss with a needy sound that surprised even himself. His eyes flew open when Thorin’s hand grasped his own once more, pushing it firmly into his breeches and wrapping it around Thorin’s rampant erection.

“Mahal…” Dwalin did not know what to do; this was _not_ what he had expected from his evening. “Fine!” he growled roughly, in response to Thorin’s pout and his ‘helpful’ fingers trying to make Dwalin’s large hand move. “But you do not move!” he commanded, like Thorin was a green recruit before his Captain, his accent notably thickened. “I’ll no have Óin upset wi’ me for injurin’ ye waur.” Unlacing his own discomfort with a sigh of relief, Dwalin did the same to Thorin, pulling his erection out of his breeches.

“Dwaliiiiin,” Thorin whined, “kisses!” His hand kept trying to move Dwalin’s on his cock, standing firm and proud from its nest of dark curls, clear fluid beading at the tip.

“A told ye nae movin’,” Dwalin growled, placing Thorin’s hands firmly on the bedding. When they stayed there, he rewarded his lover with a soft kiss. Turning himself slightly, Dwalin dropped a kiss on the tip of Thorin’s erection, smirking when he heard the gasp of air from the dwarf below him.

“More kisses?” Thorin asked hopefully. His hip pressed up slightly, wetting Dwalin’s lips with his precome. Dwalin growled, wrapping his large hands around Thorin’s hips and pressing them into the mattress. Thorin pouted at him, when he looked up to catch the blue eyes, looking more alert now, but still dark with lust. Thorin’s hips pressed against Dwalin’s hands insistently. “Dwaliiin…” he moaned. “Please.”

“Only if’n ye dinnae move,” Dwalin threatened, punctuating his sentence by licking a broad stripe from root to tip. Looking up at Thorin, he was greeted by the sight of frantic nodding. Dwalin smirked. He had always enjoyed being a tease, after all. Rubbing his bristly cheek along Thorin’s weeping cock, he gave the King a cheeky smile. “Yer sure ye can stay still fer me, **kurkaruk **[7]****?” he asked.

Taking Thorin’s groan – as well as the way his fists were stubbornly pressed against the mattress – as confirmation, Dwalin bent his head once more, wrapping his lips around the head and licking it gently. Bobbing slowly up and down, taking Thorin further into his mouth on each pass until he hit the back of his throat, Dwalin hummed softly. Swallowing around Thorin’s girth made the dark-haired dwarf cry out, but he did not move, so Dwalin continued.

“ **Halwmugrê** …” Thorin moaned, his head thrashing from side to side. “Please…”

Dwalin smirked. It had been weeks since they’d last had a chance to enjoy each other, and although this wasn’t what he’d imagined when he thought about sneaking away from the Company in camp, he wouldn’t waste the opportunity. Upping his speed slowly, he drew his tongue along the veins of Thorin’s cock, following the ridges in the way experience told him made his beloved see stars.

Leaning his weight one hand, he brought the other to bear, wrapping his strong but gentle fingers around Thorin’s balls, playing with the heavy weights and rubbing gently across the skin behind them. Thorin muttered a low curse, whining wordlessly in his throat. Dwalin knew he wanted to move, but Thorin stayed still, his fists clenching the bedding below him. Dwalin smiled around his thick mouthful, humming softly as he swallowed around the head, taking it deep into his throat. Pressing his fingers insistently against Thorin’s taint pushed the prone dwarf over the edge, his cry of completion sweet music to Dwalin’s ears as he swallowed rapidly. He chuckled against Thorin’s softening cock, releasing it from his mouth with a last lingering lick that made Thorin whimper his name.

“Yer a world o’ trouble, ma Thorin,” he murmured, resting his head on Thorin’s thigh and looking up at his lover’s sated eyes with a sigh. “Don’ ye _ever_ do something so gyte again, love,” he whispered, pressing his lips against Thorin’s skin, “I cannae lose you.” Thorin did not reply, murmuring something that sounded like Dwalin’s name; almost asleep.

The warrior chuckled, shaking his head at the ridiculousness of the whole thing, before rising from his awkward position. His own lust had not been sated, but he suddenly felt too exhausted to bother. Pulling Thorin’s breeches off, Dwalin quickly discarded his own clothing before he climbed onto the tall bed, wrapping the heavy blanket around the both of them. When he curled himself against Thorin’s side, the dark-haired dwarf let out another content sigh, turning his head to face Dwalin’s.

“My Dwalin-love,” he whispered with a soft smile, adding something Dwalin didn’t catch. Pressing his forehead against Dwalin’s, Thorin finally fell asleep.

Dwalin lay awake for another five minutes, just watching him breathe, and letting the peace of night settle on him. He tried to banish all memories of the limp way Thorin had dangled in the Eagle’s claws; it was not the first time he had seen his love horrifically injured, nor was it likely to be the last, but it did not make the sight easier to bear.

His own injuries had been far less severe; a burned palm from holding on to one of Tharkûn’s flaming pinecones for the first infinite moment after the white warg had picked up Thorin, but it was already mostly healed. Dwarrow were quite resilient to burns, after all, made for the hot work of forges, and while Dwalin did not have the fabled Fire-Touch like Glóin, who could pick up burning coals unscathed, his skin was still capable of withstanding high temperatures without significant damage.

His arm loosely curled around Thorin’s middle, Dwalin drifted off to sleep to the soft sound of Thorin’s light snores.

 

From behind the door, the sound of Thorin’s increasingly childlike demands for kisses could be heard until Dwalin managed to shut him up. None of the other Dwarrow were brave enough to go find out how. Instead they all turned to stare at the door where the elleth had disappeared into the gloaming. Exchanging a glance with Balin, Óin made his way through the door, looking for the elleth who had given him the medicine he believed to be to blame for Thorin’s behaviour.

“What was in that salve, Mistress Geira,” Óin asked when he found her outside, lying on her back and staring up at the stars coming out as night fell around them.

“Please, call me Geira or Ilsamirë, Master Óin,” she said, smiling as she turned her head to look at him. Óin involuntarily returned the smile. “The medicine is one of my own making,” she continued, “it is meant to render the patient unable to feel pain almost completely.” Giving him a concerned look, she asked, “Did it not work? I admit I have not tried it on many Dwarrow; it is far more effective than poppy-milk, but also harder to dose.”

Óin paled slightly underneath his beard. “And what happens if you… overdose the patient?” he asked in no more than a whisper, aware that more than one Dwarf was surreptitiously listening to them through the open door and windows.

“Ah…” Geira flushed slightly, thinking about it; a throaty moan that could only have come from Thorin seemed to sail past them on a gentle breeze. “In Elves it tends to produce a predilection for speaking in verse, as well as fixation on colours,” Geira admitted sheepishly. “In Dwarrow, however…” she shrugged lightly, mirth clearly visible in her blue eyes as another lust-filled groan sounded from the direction of Thorin’s bed. “I would hazard a guess at a spike in the amorous inclinations of the patient…” She kept a straight face, even when Thorin’s soft moan ended her sentence.

“I… see,” Óin said weakly. Silence reigned in the main room.

“So…Who is hungry?” Bombur asked, breaking the spell. Each Dwarf was instantly busy with some task or other, speaking loudly enough to drown out _any_ possible sounds from the King’s sickroom.

Everyone studiously ignored the fact that Dwalin did not return from Thorin’s bedside, finding their bedrolls and collapsing into exhausted sleep one by one.

 

 

[5] Hush, little avenger.

[6] Courageous Hobbit. (Zantulbasn is the common for hobbit(not rude) and mazannagûn means he who continues to show courage)

[7] Tiny-raven, nickname.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sickroom Scene was originally written for Dworin Week '17, the original is titled "A spike in the amorous inclinations of the patient"


	3. Pain and Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few answers are given, and a story is told. The past is explored and some secrets revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit complete 07-05-2018

Thorin was silently brooding over his breakfast of bread and honey the next morning, wondering how he would pay for Beorn’s hospitality.

“Good morning, Thorin,” Geira’s soft lilt called; no hint of the animosity she had shown him by the river in her tone now. Thorin stiffened nonetheless. “Son of Thráin, son of Thrór, he who is called Oakenshield, Prince of the lost Kingdom of Erebor and King-in-exile of its people.”

Thorin turned around stiffly and inclined his head. He was still not inclined to trust her, her apparent claim on the Durin Line notwithstanding. Knowing who he was did not change his opinion – _had Gandalf not shown him the proof that there were Orcs out for his head? Who could say the Elves did not also feel a need for vengeance against his kin… or simply wished for their destruction, as the Elvenking so obviously had desired?_ The elf simply smiled, taking a seat next to him.

“I thank you for your aid yesterday,” Thorin managed, even though it galled him to owe an elf gratitude. The wide smile she gave him in return was far too fond for his liking, but he kept his mouth shut; he had thanked her, and the small voice in his head that he knew was his Amad would now stop scolding him for his ungratefulness, which was his main goal.

“You are most welcome,” she replied softly, still smiling at him like she was fond of him – like she _knew_ him. It was unsettling. Thorin turned his attention back to his breakfast, feeling Balin’s eyes prick the back of his neck. “We have met before, you and I,” the elf-girl continued lightly, serving herself a thick slice of bread drizzled with honey, “though I do not expect you to remember. You were little more than a Dwarfling the last time I visited your… Erebor.”

“You visited Erebor?” Thorin asked, almost despite himself; the only Elves he remembered visiting had been the haughty Elvenking, Thranduil, accompanied by some guards he had paid no great attention to at the time.

“It was the home of my… kinsmen,” Geira said pointedly, the slight pause before the designation of them as such making him think she had meant to use a different word. “I used to visit often, before Thrór’s animosity against my Adad’s people became so pronounced as to make my visits… unwise.”

Thorin turned to face her and found himself suddenly struck by the odd combination of familiar Dwarven features and Elf characteristics that mingled in her face. She had the sharp cheekbones of the Eldar, but her nose was clearly Dwarven in origin; she might not match his ideals of beauty – too slender, even if she had some strength to her, and missing anything resembling a beard – but she was pretty and Thorin thought she would be pleasing to the eye of an elf or man. Then he realized that she had his eyes, even if her brows were too fine and their slant seemed too Elvish. Those were still _Durin-eyes_ , he knew, one of the markers of his Line; though the gaze held within hers was ages older than he had ever seen them.

“Say that I believe you when you claim our kinship,” he began hesitantly, feeling caught by that soft gaze; still far more fond than he had earned, and disconcerting with it, “how did one such as you…” he gestured at her obviously Elven ears; perhaps an ancestor of his had loved an Elf – there must be more than one kind of Elf, as there were many kinds of Dwarrow; perhaps one of _them_ was worthy of love… but to beget a _child_ from such a union? It seemed too fantastical a tale; certainly, one that _ought_ to have been part of his education if not in Exile then at least in Erebor. “…come to be?”

Geira laughed, but her eyes remained fond, sparkling with brilliant amusement. “My story, Thorin?” she asked, almost teasing, “is that your desire?”

Thorin nodded, silent in the face of the mystery before him.

“Very well,” Geira said quietly. “Then I shall tell you of my life.” Pausing, she took a bite of her breakfast. Shaking her head lightly, she cleared her throat, turning back to look at him, her smile tinged with melancholy. “In the Second Age of this world, there was yet friendship between the Eldar and the Children of Mahal. My mother,” she continued, that same melancholy smile crossing her face, “was named Narví; you will perhaps know her as Narví Stonecarver, younger sister to Durin the Second and Guild-Master of the Brotherhood of Stone.”

A fingernail tapped her Durin bead with a soft ping and Thorin was startled to realise that her beads were all made of mithril; an extravagance even for the Royal House of Erebor before the dragon came and certainly not a treasure one would wear while _travelling_. Thorin’s assessment of her skill with the weapons she carried made a considerable leap upwards. He might have made a sound giving away his thoughts, for she smiled wryly at him before continuing her tale.

“My father was Lord of Eregion, which bordered Khazad-dûm before it fell… he was Celebrimbor, son of Curufin the Crafty, son of Fëanor, High-King of the Noldor… but that is a different story.” She smiled to herself, twirling a lock of hair around her fingers, seemingly seeing something far away in time and place before her eyes. “Together, they created the Doors of Durin, the great **Zelemekhem**[8] **Khazad-dûm** – the Gates of Moria as it is now known – the first true Dwarf Door made since the Fall of Belegost.”

Ori had silently taken a seat across from them, never able to resist the lure of history, but Thorin ignored his presence easily.

“Amad realised it first,” Geira said, smiling softly, “while my father tried to deny his heart for fear of the grief it should cause him to love a mortal… but Amad would not give up on her One, and she was the more stubborn by far, though the House of Fëanor is known for that trait among others too. Their love was not… widely accepted,” she admitted, looking sad, “though it did not make it any less real.”

Thorin felt an odd sympathy for her in that moment, the ghost of anger crossing her face making him wonder how many times she had had to defend her parents’ love to either side.

“They married in 1328, just after the Doors were finished; I was born in Eregion, in the year 1330 of the Second Age.” Taking a drink from her cup, she fell silent.

“It… but we are not like the Eldar folk,” Thorin replied, mind reeling. A Dwarrowdam and an Elf… suddenly, he remembered the times other dwarflings had disparaged Kíli for his uncommon height and even more uncommon skill with a bow by calling him an elf-son… he had always believed it a physical impossibility that such a child could exist – and he was well aware of Kíli’s fully Dwarven parentage – and yet the proof that such an insult could be rooted in truth…. Was sat right next to him. For a moment, he wondered if she had had dwarflings of her own – the Line of Durin shared an uncommon height among their most notable traits compared to other Dwarrow. _Could that be the reason for her inexplicable fondness? Was the Elf an ancestress of his?_ Thorin felt slightly ill.

Geira shrugged, her eyes turned back to her plate. “It was said of my father’s Line that they had been given gifts far stronger than those of other Elves,” she said, “I think it not unlikely that I was born of his wish to have me – even if he had not realised it at the time. The Elven fëa is much more connected to its house – the body – than that of a Dwarf.”

Thorin nodded, though he did not really understand her meaning; he had known many couples who _wished_ for pebbles and never received the Life-Giver’s blessing. Wishing did not create Dwarflings, to his mind.

“After the making of the Rings of Power,” Geira continued, and Thorin thought of the Ring of Durin, lost with Thráin so many years ago, “When my father was taken by Sauron the Deceiver and tortured to his death, Eregion fell and friendship between Elves and Dwarrow started to wane. The Dwarrow of Durin’s Folk remained allies with the Elves who based themselves in Imladris and Lothlórien, fighting against the forces of the Shadow together, harrying the Enemy as they could.”

Thorin opened his mouth but thought better of asking when he caught the dark look in her eyes.

“I…  Khazad-dûm was no longer my home, then.” A shadow crossed her face at that, but she did not elaborate and Thorin once more felt that questions would not be welcome. “I visit my Dwarven kin often, still, forming friendships among my mother’s kin, and I…” she hesitated, glancing at him and Thorin had the same odd feeling that her next words were not the ones she had originally planned to say, “fought with Durin IV at Dagorlad, in the Last Alliance of Middle-Earth… but my home is with my father’s kin.” Looking East through the open windows, she smiled softly, her face wearing an oddly longing expression. Swallowing her last bite of bread, she added, “Currently, I live south of here, in Lothlórien, the Realm ruled by my cousin, Lady Galadriel.”

“And what name do you go by there?” Thorin asked; he had noted the way the name she had given herself – Geira; obviously the name her amad had given her – brought her some pain, and he idly wondered why she had introduced herself with it when they met, rather than an Elvish name

“In Khazad-dûm,” she said, “they called me Geira the Immortal Ember; the Elves named my mother Fiery Heart, so the deed-name fit. To the Children of Mahal,” she continued, “I am generally known as **Usakh makartûna Mahal**[9], or simply Usakh.”

“Do you prefer another name?” Thorin asked, interested despite himself; he had travelled under several assumed names himself, though most of them were based on either his own name or his deed-name, but he had always preferred Thorin to any other. Geira laughed.

Behind her, Balin and Ori had both stiffened at the title she gave herself. Ori’s ever-present journal quickly made an appearance, his pen not far behind. Thorin frowned. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a memory stirred, but it was lost as Geira continued speaking.

 “Geira…” she smiled, that same air of melancholy casting shadows in her blue eyes, “I have not been Geira for many centuries. Your amad calls me Rhonith; I should not object if you use that name, too.” Smiling softly, she looked around the Company who had gathered during the course of her tale. Ori had a small list of notes written in an indecipherable shorthand beside him.

“Then you will be Rhonith, to us,” Thorin announced – “Wait…” Rhonith nodded, giving him another too-fond smile. “You knew my mother?” The question escaped his mouth almost without permission, and Thorin scowled at himself for the sheer inanity of it. Here was someone who had followed his race since the middle of the Second Age, more than 5000 years ago, and all he could come up with was ‘you knew my mother?’.

“Yes, I know Frís,” Geir-Rhonith replied, frowning lightly. “We were close friends before she married Thráin, and I spent a fair while in her company before Erebor fell – my visits to your Ered Luin settlement have been few,” she smiled sadly and Thorin felt an odd pang of guilt at the thought that his unconcealed loathing of Elves would have been a reason for her absence, “and I have not seen her for some years now, though she writes me letters.”

Thorin studied the elleth before him. He did not know what to make of her story; he had detected no lie in her words, and still he could not shake the feeling of secrets kept silent underneath the veneer of truth she gave him. “It would grieve you then, to learn of her passing?” he asked, regretting his tone immediately. The expression that fleetingly showed on her face answered his question. With a pang for his amad, Thorin wished that he had not been so rude in his questioning.

“ **Mukhuh Mahal tadimi astî ra mukhuh nâlazi du Itdendûm zadkhul, Bâhayê**[10],” Rhonith said quietly, blinking away a sheen of tears. Thorin felt the lump of guilt from before thicken in his throat. The Company around them were staring in silence.

“Thank you.” Thorin masterfully swallowed his guilt, well aware that if Frís had heard him, she would have clouted him round the ear for his rudeness.

“The last time I saw Frís was… almost forty years ago,” she murmured. He could see lingering traces of sadness in her eyes, but she masked it quickly. “I stopped by on my way to the Grey Havens; you, Dwalin, and your nephews were all gone hunting, and Dís was visiting her husband’s ailing amad, so no one saw me sneak into the house.” She swallowed. “It had been nearly sixty years since I had spoken to her in person, by then, but I am… was… most fond of Frís, yes.”

Thorin counted back in his head, realising that he knew when she had visited: At that time, Frís had been suddenly certain that Thráin was dead – _had this elf delivered her that news?_

Mead was served to the Company by the sheep, while the dogs began setting the table for lunch. No one spoke much, though the food was delicious. The earlier conversation seemed to have laid a spell of grief upon those who had known the Dowager Queen of Durin’s Folk, and as Frís had been beloved by most everyone in Ered Luin, everyone around the table had at least _met_ her, even if they were no direct relations.

 

After lunch, Lady Rhonith obviously decided it was her turn to ask questions, startling Thorin out of his contemplations and bringing the responsibilities of the Quest back to the forefront of his mind.

“What is your purpose on this journey, Thorin Oakenshield?” she asked bluntly, looking at him with his own sapphire eyes narrowed in thought; unsettlingly similar to the expression Dís, too, wore when she was trying – and succeeding – to see right through him.

Thorin frowned, trying to decide how much information he would trust her with; the earlier revelations notwithstanding, she was still an _elf_ , and he could not be sure of her loyalties.

Kíli grinned impishly. “We’re going to kill the dragon of course!” he exclaimed.  

Thorin winced slightly. He would have preferred that his exuberant nephew had not blurted it out quite like that. He glared at Kíli. The younger Dwarf sat back down, abashed, but slightly defiant. Fíli was hiding a smile in his tankard.

Rhonith choked on her mead.

“WHAT?!” she exclaimed, staring aghast at Kíli for a moment before she turned, hissing angrily at Gandalf in an Elven tongue Thorin did not have the skill to follow. “ _Mithrandir! Ci ben-ind **[11]**?”  _ Glaring darkly, she gestured angrily at the Company around them, her voice dropping even lower in her fury. Thorin suddenly had no problem believing that her mother had been a dwarrowdam. “ _They cannot simply kill a dragon!_ ”

The wizard scowled at her, even as the dwarrow began arguing, but she simply glared back at him. He was not accustomed to people haranguing him or pointing out flaws in his plans. Elrond would do it, but the Elf Lord at least attempted to be diplomatic. Mentally he shook his head and chuckled, he’d missed the little spitfire.

“Dragons are terribly difficult to kill, Mithrandir, _you_ should know that,” she said, her lips still tight with anger but her voice a little more even. “It’s a fool’s errand you’ve set my kinsmen on, wizard!”

“We’re not helpless!” Dwalin growled darkly, obviously offended by her words – Thorin nodded; he, too, had caught the sound of absolute conviction when she told the wizard they could not kill Smaug. He ignored that _killing_ the Dragon that had conquered their home had never been part of their pans in the first place, scowling at Rhonith.

Rhonith continued to glare at Mithrandir, her heart galloping with fear in her breast. “Look at Thranduil, Mithrandir,” she said, a note of pleading in her voice now as she looked at him, which did not help Thorin’s temper any.

“Thranduil?!” Thorin boomed, feeling familiar rage fill him, undimmed by the intervening 170 years since the last time he had laid eyes on the Elvenking of Mirkwood, interrupting the elf without care. “If I ever see him again, it’ll be too soon! **Inbul-hibir fundhamâd-ublag! Hufura mâ!**[12]” Thorin roared, to general applause and agreement from the surrounding Dwarrow. Rhonith, however, paled, her eyes hard as sapphire chips when she turned the full force of her glare from the wizard to Thorin, who suddenly felt as if he was a little boy being scolded. He scowled back, but the earlier fondness was gone.

“I will forgive this insult to my good friend,” Rhonith replied, shaking her head angrily, “for you clearly speak from ignorance.”

“He is a treacherous snake!” Thorin bellowed back, his fist hitting the table. Ori squeaked.

“King Thranduil is one of the most honourable and tenacious elves you could ever meet!” she hissed back angrily. “You know not what you say.”

Thorin felt an impulse to ring her neck and jumped to his feet, his angry fist slamming down onto the table. “Did he not betray our alliance when the dragon came?!” he roared, glaring at her. “I _saw_ the elves on the ridge above the Front Gate as we fled,” he spat. “Your ‘honourable’ Thranduil turned away.” Pressing his lips together to avoid making a sound at the sudden agony of his cracked ribs, Thorin forced himself to sit back down. “The elves abandoned us to starvation and homelessness. They forsook our old alliance!”

“Alliance?” Rhonith scoffed harshly, eyes flashing with her anger. “You speak of an alliance, but that alliance was broken _years_ before by Thrór’s ignorance and arrogance! Did you never wonder why you saw no elves in your court for years before Smaug came?” She cursed harshly under her breath, leaving Ori’s reddening ears to be covered by Dori, and Bilbo for once felt somewhat pleased that he didn’t understand Khuzdul.

Thorin scowled at her, breathing through the pain. Balin shot him a worried glance but did not speak.

“Grandfather saw the heart of the elf,” Thorin claimed stubbornly, “he knew Thranduil would betray us, even if he couldn’t know _how_.” He had thought she was angry before, but it was nothing to the fury now burning in those eyes, and for a moment, Thorin felt apprehensive at the thought that she – _was she a subject of Thranduil’s?_ – might challenge him to a duel for his words; a challenge he surely could not fight in his current condition.

“ **Me dubul ma samnirmî kasab du zantulbasn bintablagi!**[13]” Rhonith exclaimed, looking at him with something Thorin could only call _disappointment_ swirling in her eyes; as though she had expected better of him, and he had let her down.

Nori looked torn between an impressed smirk and outright laughter. It was rare that anyone dared speak openly against Thrór – especially in the presence of his heirs. Fíli and Kíli appeared to be expecting their amad to pop up and scold the girl for her language.

Adding a few more curses in Elvish that Thorin felt somewhat pleased he did not understand – he had never bothered much with the study of Sindarin, but he knew it wasn’t the Mirkwood tongue she spoke – Rhonith glared at him, visibly struggling to keep her temper. One hand remained clenched into a fist in her lap, but her voice returned to her earlier mellifluous calm.

 “You speak of an alliance of neighbours, and I tell you there was no way we could have remained Thrór’s allies in those days.” Looking at him, her lips thinned in anger, her gaze akin to a spear of ice through his soul.

Thorin suddenly felt quite certain that he would not like the story she was about to tell him, and still he could see no lie in her face, even if her posture was stiff with anger. Glancing at Balin brought him no help; the Uzugbad was staring raptly at the elf.

“Thrór wanted Thranduil to pledge allegiance to him as the holder of the _Arkenstone_ ,” Rhonith scoffed, looking as though simply saying the name of the King’s Jewel made her feel ill. “Thranduil refused, of course; the Eldar long-since learned the danger of gems that put lust in the hearts of the beholders… owning such gems does not make one a true ruler.”

Thorin bared his teeth at her – _was the entirety of this Quest not begun for the sake of ownership of the Arkenstone and what that would buy him?_ – but Rhonith ignored him; did not even look at him.

Speaking slowly, she looked into her cup as though the tea she had just been served held the answers she sought. “Your parents – Frís had married Thráin by then – worked hard just to ensure _peace_ , to mitigate the harshness of the King… all to no avail. Thrór’s animosity had long strained our relationship with the Dwarrow of Erebor, but the final insult occurred not long before the Dragon came…” she trembled lightly, but continued, “when the white gems of Lasgalen – an heirloom of Thranduil’s line from the First Age – were sent to Erebor to be set in mithril. Once, they had belonged to Queen Nenglessel, gifted to her upon her wedding by King Thingol of Doriath; when Thranduil – her only surviving child – married, Nenglessel gifted the gems to his wife, Nínimeth.” Pausing for a sip of water, that same fleeting grief crossed her face. “Thrór stole them. It was among the least of his crimes, to some, but it was an insult Thranduil could not let pass unchallenged.”

“My grandfather was no thief!” Thorin seethed. Rhonith laughed.

“No thief?” she smiled mockingly for a moment, continuing undaunted by his dark glare, “Even now, the casket of gems rests somewhere in the treasury, guarded by Smaug.” Gesturing east towards Erebor she smiled grimly. “I met your grandfather when he was young,” she said quietly, “before the fall of Ered Mithrim, before Sigvór and Thora died… and _that_ Thrór was a good dwarf, a noble ruler.” Pausing, she waved her hand as though to wave away the image in her head, and Thorin silently wondered who Thora had been – Sigvór was his sigin’amad, who had died when Thráin was still a dwarfling, but he did not recognise the second name. “The King he became, however,” Rhonith continued sadly, “was a tyrant, mad with lust for gold that could not be assuaged, no matter how much he collected.” For a moment, she seemed sad, but the expression was gone in an instant. Turning back to stare into her mug of tea, she sighed. “Of course,” she muttered, “the Arkenstone did not help, but Thrór was warned by Lady Galadriel – the greatest Seer of our people – as well as several Stone-Seers among his own court years before Smaug’s attack. He did not listen. He did _nothing_.” Her morose contemplation of the by now empty cup she held was interrupted by a dog nosing her leg to draw attention to the fresh flagon of mead he’d brought. Balin poured for the group.

“That’s the second time you’ve blamed the Arkenstone,” Thorin commanded, making a supreme effort at keeping his temper, helped by the steady weight of Dwalin’s foot on top of his own and Balin’s frequent glares across the table. “Explain yourself.”

“Ahh, the Arkenstone,” Rhonith replied, the frown back on her face. She took a sip of the mead, letting the cool sweetness wet her throat as she thought. “Thrór’s problems began long before it was found, of course, but I believe the Arkenstone sped up his descent into madness…” She sighed, glancing at Thorin who did his best to look calm, though he feared the façade didn’t fool her. “You know what happens to a dwarf who loses his One, certainly,” she said.

Thorin nodded; remembering Dís’ long period of ‘grey-ness’ as he’d called it; more than a year spent being so unlike his previously vivacious sister that he had feared some part of her had died with Víli. She had had the lads to keep her going, force her to live, but he had worried, in the darkest days, if she would ever truly find her way out of that grief.

“Grandfather did not fall into his Craft,” he pointed out, not entirely sure what Thrór’s Craft had even been. Rhonith shook her head sadly.

“No, he did not,” she said, sighing, “though much might have been different if he had…” Smacking her lips in annoyance, she took another sip of the mead. “Thrór… he was one of a rare few who found a second love in his gold. When your grandmother died - of course, you never knew her, but she was a formidable dwarrowdam indeed - she left… a hole, you could say, in his heart. Instead of filling that hole with his son and future grandchildren, Thrór filled it with gold, to the exclusion of all else.”

Thorin opened his mouth to offer another rebuttal, but Rhonith did not seem to see him, staring into the past as though it was as vivid to her as the present.

 “There’s nothing wrong with wanting gold!” Glóin interrupted belligerently. There was a smattering of agreement from the rest of the assembled dwarrow. Glóin’s outburst earned him a gentle smile, however, not the quiet rage of Thorin’s accusations. He scowled at his loud cousin.

“Indeed, Master Glóin,” Rhonith replied softly. “Working gold is a proper tribute to the Maker and **Naddun Mahal**[14] have listened to the song of gold since their awakening.” She smiled, fingering the long chain around her neck, disappearing under her clothes, made from interwoven strands of gold and mithril finer than any Thorin had seen. “It is one of the deepest songs of the race, one of the most precious gifts bestowed upon our people, that we may hear the memory of the Maker’s joy in our creation when we handle it.”

Bilbo felt a little lost at the last statement, but the Company were nodding agreement around him, so the hobbit kept silent. He decided to ask Bofur for clarification later. The miner had – since the night in the Misty Mountains – been friendlier towards him and would probably answer his questions.

“The problem with gold is not so much the amassing of it,” Rhonith said, “but the mental attachment that follows. You _could_ collect as much gold as Thrór had and be healthy… Or you could start to see the gold, not for what you could do with it, be that crafting or currency, but for the gold itself.” Furrowing her brows, she continued slowly, “Gold that is turned into items, valued for their beauty or use are safe; their songs are filled with the joy of crafting.”

Glóin’s belligerence appeased for the moment, the fiery redhead ran his thumb over the locket that held the pictures of his family. The silver casing was chased with a pattern of gold, forming runes of protection and love. Nodding at Glóin’s locket, Rhonith smiled. The merchant grinned broadly. Thorin did not feel appeased after her earlier insult to his grandfather, scowling into his cup.

“Gold that is made into coins or bars and kept solely for the sake of being gold…that is what attracts dragons,” she continued, looking east out of the window as though she could see the circling red dragon over Dale, tearing through the Gates of Erebor in her mind. She shuddered. “It’s like a scent on the wind to them, the lust for treasure,” she murmured almost silently.

When he remembered the grandfather Thrór had been, Thorin’s memories were usually fond; his grandfather had enjoyed telling him stories, letting little Thorin play with the Raven Crown and given him many splendid gifts… but he also remembered the last few years before Smaug, as her words brought back times of uncertainty, times of almost-fear when he was stood in the Throne Room, Dwalin solid beside him, and heard Nár or Thrór proclaim another increase in taxes or a new law that even Thorin’s young mind considered unjust. He remembered the quiet despair of his amad, remembered Fundin’s tight grimaces in Council, and he could not claim that Thrór had not been all the things she said he was.

“It began with taxation; Thrór’s lust for gold grew slowly, but steadily, until trade between the Kingdoms nearly ground to a halt. The lure of gold has ever been a downfall of the Children of Mahal,” Rhonith said, echoing his thoughts, “and as the hoard in the Treasury grew, so Thrór’s tyranny grew with it, turning him dark and cruel. I know Thráin tried to fight it, at first, but he was never a strong character, and he could not depose his father, nor defy him openly.” She sighed again, lost in the fog of years past. “By the time you were born, Thorin, it was already a matter of time… We had _hoped_ that Thrór would die or be forced to abdicate as his demands and decisions became ever more erratic and he spent more and more time staring at his gold, rather than actually ruling his kingdom.” Sighing heavily, she set down her cup, her lips once more tight with old anger. “Unfortunately, members of Thrór’s council were perfectly alright with an absent ruler,” she said, eyes sparking, “and used his preoccupation to enhance their own positions and gather riches.”

Thorin nodded slowly, as did Balin on the other side of the wide table. They both remembered such ‘councillors’ and their many intrigues, as well as Thrór’s ignorance of the plots around him – and his odd paranoia, distrusting those most interested in helping their people.

“The Arkenstone exacerbated the problem,” Rhonith said gently, “simply because of the weight Thrór put on it as the King’s Jewel.” She scoffed, “Accursed thing. Divine right to rule, indeed. If it had remained where it was or had simply been praised for its beauty…” she paused, fingering her Durin-braid sadly. “Thrór’s hoard already smelled sweet, to the senses of a Dragon, and the powers of divinity he attributed to the Arkenstone made it all the sweeter. And then the dragon came.”

“You still haven’t explained why you think the Elvenking didn’t betray us,” Thorin said, refusing to let go of this matter; he had spent far too long blaming Thranduil for abandoning his people – he wanted to hear whatever reason the Elves claimed lay behind such a dastardly deed. Balin nodded thoughtfully; he too had seen the Elvenking turn his host away from the mountain.

“Thranduil Elvenking…how much do you know of his history?” Rhonith’s quiet question was met with fairly blank stares all around.

“He’s King in the forest, always has been and he’s a cold-hearted bastard,” Dwalin summed up their collective knowledge succinctly. Thorin hid an involuntary chuckle, though he knew that his One was very aware of his amusement. Seemingly, so was Rhonith, shaking her head at the both of them, a small fond smile playing around her lips for a moment.

“You don’t know him at all, I fear,” she said softly, giving Thorin a shrewd glance. “It is a shame, for I think you could be good friends.”

When Thorin spluttered at her audacity, her smile widened. Thorin felt the small vibrations against his back that meant Dwalin was laughing silently – a skill they had both gained over many years of meetings with nobles and councillors – his face giving away no hint of amusement.

“Very well,” Rhonith said, “I shall tell you the story of the Elvenking Thranduil, he whose name means vigorous river[15], which really tells you everything about his personality…” Taking a sip of her mead, she began slowly, “Thranduil is one of the oldest elves alive in Middle-Earth today, born in the First Age as the youngest son of Oropher and Nenglessel; his father was a noble lord in Doriath, one of the Sindarin kingdoms of Beleriand, on the other side of the Blue Mountains.”

The Drowned Land, they called it in their annals; the sinking of Beleriand had broken the Blue Mountains and forced the most of the Dwarven inhabitants to flee eastwards, joining their kin in Khazad-dûm. The Blue Mountains had not been entirely abandoned after the Breaking – the Exiles had joined existing Broadbeam and Firebeard settlements in some parts of the mountains – but the mountains were riddled with cavern systems and flooded with seawater and could not support a true underground Dwarven city.

“After King Thingol was killed by the Dwarrow of Nogrod, and Doriath was sacked by the Sons of Fëanor, Oropher took his house to the Isle of Balar, seeking refuge with Círdan, a kinsman of his wife. Once the War of Wrath was over, however, they journeyed east, following a vision beyond the Misty Mountains… and built a new Kingdom in the Great Forest, uniting the Silvan tribes there under one King.”

Thorin had to admit that she had a way of drawing in her audience; _he_ had learned some elven history in Erebor, but no one had much cared about _elven_ history afterwards, so the rest of the Company had not.

“Are you related to Thranduil?” Thorin asked, startling her out of her thoughts.

Rhonith laughed for a moment. “Not by blood,” she said, “my connection to Thranduil was born of my bond with his wife, who was the daughter of my father’s sworn sister; she has been my kin-by-oath since I was born – a sister.”

Several members of the Company nodded; such sworn kin was not uncommon in their own culture – as valid as blood-kin under their laws.

“There is no Queen in the Forest,” Balin interjected softly, recoiling at the grief that crossed her face at the words. Rhonith shook her head.

“No, Nínimeth dwells beyond the sea; she sailed west… 2868 years ago. I put her on the ship myself,” she swallowed hard, “she was lost in grief, and would have faded entirely if Thranduil had not sent her west.”

“Lost in grief?” Thorin asked, frowning; he once more thought of Dís and felt a frisson of resentment that Rhonith’s story was making him feel sympathy towards Thranduil.

“She was a Silvan Elf and theirs was a scandalous romance,” she laughed, “but they let no one stand in the way of their happiness.”

The dwarrow were reeling at this revelation. None of them had believed that Thranduil was even capable of love.

Rhonith’s laughter died, her thoughts once again grim as she continued softly, “Thranduil and Nínimeth had three sons, fully grown, when the War of the Last Alliance began,” she revealed, and Thorin remembered her talking about Durin IV fighting in that war. “They all followed Oropher’s call to arms, marching upon Mordor and Sauron’s dark forces. In the Battle of Dagorlad in the year 3434 of the Second Age, Oropher – no one knows why, now, but he was reckless betimes – charged the enemy without proper orders or aid and was slain, along with two thirds of his army… Dagorlad claimed many lives dear to Thranduil, chief among them his father Oropher, and his eldest son, Thalion. Thalion died in the arms of Nínimeth, who… grief broke her spirit.”

Rhonith fell silent, grief-stricken once more. Dori reached across the table, squeezing her tight fist gently. The elf shuddered once, her eyes losing the far-way look as she focussed on the mithril-haired tailor with a small smile.

“Nínimeth was strong,” she said, a smile playing around her lips, “and slowly fought her way back to the world of the living, sharing the burden of ruling with Thranduil. For a while, there was peace, and though Thalion shall never be forgotten, we found a semblance of happiness, making peace with his loss. Then Nínimeth got with child…” her smile turned soft, her thoughts once more far away from the Skinwalker’s cabin. “The pregnancy was seen as a good omen, but the birth of their youngest son was not as happy an occasion as it should have been.” A sad sigh escaped her. “Nínimeth was… I cannot explain it, for she was so far from herself that…” Cutting off her words with an impatient gesture, Rhonith emptied her mug. “Thranduil never wanted to rule, and Nínimeth was the light of his heart; the pain of their separation and the ever-encroaching darkness of Mirkwood, especially during the last few centuries, has left him a pale shadow of his former self.” Getting to her feet, she slipped out before anyone could stop her, leaving behind a sombre Company digesting her story.

Thorin felt reluctantly sympathetic with the Elvenking, something that vexed him greatly.

“Elves feel things differently to mortals,” Gandalf interjected quietly, “the loss of her sister is to Ilsamirë only a little less painful today than when she watched the ship leave the Grey Havens; she will return shortly. You ought to ask her for the story of Thranduil and the dragons… you may understand why the Elves turned away from Smaug, then.” Puffing quietly on his pipe, the wizard fell silent; Thorin wondered for a moment why the wizard did not simply tell the story himself, but – mindful of Thrór’s sage advice regarding wizards and their incomprehensible whims – turned his attention to the excellent lunch spread being served by Beorn’s animals. Of the giant Man there was still no sign, which did not worry Thorin overly; the large bear Dwalin had seen him transform into seemed nigh indestructible.

 

Bright sunlight brought some solace from grief, Rhonith thought, listening to the chirps of the birds in the leafy tree she leaned against, though her mind continued to spin around in useless circles; Frís was dead, and she had not even known to grieve for her. Abruptly, she changed her mind; she would head to Mirkwood instead of continuing on to Imladris – there was no reason to travel there, after all, now that she had learned why there had been no word from Frís at the end of spring as usual.

For a moment, she felt angry at Thorin for throwing Frís’ death in her face in such a manner, but he could not have known how sharply the words would cut; she had seen surprise in his blue eyes and known that Frís had never shared _that_ story with her oldest son. A momentary smile flashed across her face, remembering Legolas holding the small golden-haired pebble so carefully, marvelling at the strength of her grip on his fingers.

Sighing, she got to her feet, wondering what the dwarrowdam would have thought about the Quest her son had undertaken and feeling absolute certainty fill her. Rhonith sighed.

“Very well, little sister,” she murmured, imagining the smile her words would have brought to Frís’ face, “I shall do my best to aid them.”

 

Returning to the oversized kitchen, once again feeling a distinct sense of amusement at the sight of the Company sitting like rows of heads along the table, Rhonith felt at peace with her decision – now it only remained to convince Thorin that she would be a valuable addition to his small band; but if that failed, she was skilled enough to follow them through the forest they would have to traverse without being seen.

“Gandalf wanted you to tell us a story about Thranduil and dragons,” Thorin said, still looking like he’d tasted something sour. Rhonith sighed, sending the smoking wizard a tired glare. She didn’t _want_ to think about dragons… Frowning, she fiddled absentmindedly with her braids, her mind filled with the distant memory of roaring and a hated name. Sweet Ori patted her hand comfortingly, breaking her out of the spell of memory.

“Dragons and Thranduil,” she sighed, suddenly too exhausted to be angry at Mithrandir’s scheming. Returning to the window, she looked out at the vibrant gardens, but the bright flowers and the verdant grass failed to give her comfort. “Thranduil met his first dragons in the War of Wrath, the great war of the First Age against Morgoth. He was a young elf then, only a few centuries old, but he watched them slaughter many of his kin and friends…” Pausing slightly, she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of flowers, not smoke. “I told you Oropher brought his people East after Beleriand was sunk,” she began, “but I did not say that on their journey they came across one of the last dragons yet living in Middle-Earth. Filled with grief, still, and anger at their slain kin, they killed it… but their losses were heavy. Thranduil’s two older brothers were slain, and Thranduil himself might not have survived, if not for his later Queen, Nínimeth, who found him and tended his wounds – she is a gifted healer.” For a moment, her mind was filled with crimson hair and laughing green eyes, but then she shook her head, turning back to Thorin and willing him to _believe_ her. “That’s why Thranduil might be the best to ask for advice about fighting dragons… There are few things on Arda he holds in greater hatred, and there are not many of us left on these shores that have fought them and won.” Almost none, in fact, she knew, stilling her urge to shudder through sheer willpower.

Thorin glowered at this unsolicited advice but Rhonith ignored him easily – they had made her talk about this topic she avoided even thinking about and part of her felt like a dam had burst, words spilling from her lips with little control from her mind.

“The day of the dragon,” she began haltingly, seeing again the terrifying red scales against the blue morning sky, heard the roar of flames and the screams of those it devoured. “Yes, I was there, too, Thorin,” Rhonith revealed. “ _I_ was the one who sounded the alarm when we first spotted the dragon flying towards Dale –” She swallowed hard, her voice quiet but no less fervent than his bellows. “The dragon we had _warned_ your grandfather his hoard and his mentality would attract…” she paused, staring blindly out the window, completely unaware of the giant bumblebee that landed on her hair for a moment before it flew off again. “I was in Mirkwood, then, and… the host of the Forest – every Elf able to bear a weapon – was on the move less than an hour later, trying to get to Erebor as fast as possible. You know how far it is from Mirkwood to Erebor... We were too late; the beast had gained the mountain. If the dragon had been outside the mountain, we could have shot it down, but going in after it was suicide.” Swallowing hard, she turned around, looking at all of them but still with an air of not even registering their presence. “You cannot fight a dragon in a place like Erebor with an army,” she whispered, closing her eyes for a moment. “Dragons are clever. Fiendishly clever. Attacking a dragon in his lair, especially inside a Dwarf mountain, which is full of corners and corridors, is to ask to die in a fiery ambush.” Opening her eyes, she looked directly at Thorin, who felt his chest tighten at the grief in her eyes. “Thranduil chose not to be Oropher. We stood on that ridge, and yes, we turned away … for we could have done nothing but die,” she finished quietly, sighing sadly.

A dog licked her cheek before it scampered off to join Beorn at the hearth. The giant Man had entered unnoticed in the middle of her tale and was listening just as intently as the Company.

“You could have helped the survivors! We were starving and homeless!” Thorin was still livid. The fact that no aid had come from the Elves lay as heavy on his heart as it ever had. A people who would turn away starving orphans could never be redeemed in his eyes.

Rhonith’s hand smacked the table, causing plates and cutlery to jump. A frightened sheep bleated in the corner of the room. “We tried!” she exclaimed. “Supplies and aid were offered to you!” Cursing under her breath, she made a visible effort at speaking calmly. “We sent messengers to Thrór and to Dale, offering shelter, food that could be spared, even guides through our forest once we realised you’d turn west. The Men accepted, Girion’s widow and his young son… He was too young to rule, but he became a good leader for his people nonetheless.” Swallowing hard, Rhonith looked at Thorin, once more hating his grandfather for all that had been lost to Thrór’s animosity when he frowned darkly in return. “Thrór, on the other hand,” she said softly, “sent our messengers back with demands for an army to retake the mountain and reclaim his gold. He said… he said that if the elves would not aid in reclaiming the realm of the king to whom they should swear fealty, he would not see them. If any elf came to him, he’d send them back headless. That day…was the first time I was ever ashamed to call the Line of Durin my kin…” Grief, strong enough to take his breath away, shone in her sapphire eyes. “I am _over_ 5000 years old, Master Oakenshield, and Thrór was the first of my Uncle’s descendants that I was _ashamed_ to call kin.”

No one spoke, more than a few of them glancing askance at Thorin who felt like he’d been punched hard, all the air driven from his lungs.

“I never heard that,” Balin replied after a long silence. “Our Adad was part of Thrór’s council,” he added.

Rhonith gave him a sad smile. “You were young then, I remember your blue hair… you were a scribe, yes? For the Council.”  

Balin nodded. “I never heard talk of messengers from the Elvenking.”

“Because the messengers would speak only to Frís,” Rhonith replied, frowning lightly, “she was the envoy between our peoples… Elves have long memories, and we do not forgive insults lightly; no elf who called Thranduil King would have wanted to interact with Thrór.” Shaking her head lightly, she smiled to herself. “One of the ways my two peoples are very similar,” she muttered, “stubborn and proud.”

“I remember that…” Thorin whispered, suddenly hearing the way his grandfather had bellowed at his Amad, though he had not known the cause at the time. “He was…”

Her temper cooled, Rhonith simply sounded tired and worn by the conversation. She looked at a stone-faced Thorin and reached out to squeeze his hand gently, “As much as you might have loved your grandfather and as much as he cared for you… his gold was more important to him than the starvation of his people’s children. I’m sorry.”

Thorin felt numb, his mind whirling as pieces that had once been disparate suddenly made a horrifyingly clear picture in his mind. Sick guilt flooded him, a deep sense of shame that the grandfather he had idolised for so long had behaved so… monstrously. _How many lives had his greed cost them? How many dwarflings might have lived through those first few years of Exile if they had been better supplied, had been sheltered – kept safe?_

Dwalin’s heavy hand on his shoulder, warm and alive, grounded Thorin in the present, bringing him back to the Skinchanger’s kitchen in time to hear the answer to a question he’d missed.

“I personally went to Lady Galadriel on your behalf,” Rhonith said sadly. “And I believe Lord Elrond offered refuge for your young and those who were pregnant, so they might be born in safety, but that too was rebuffed.”

Thorin’s heart hurt, reaching up to squeeze Dwalin’s fingers, needing the silent support of his lover more than he needed his next breath of air.

“Thranduil took in the men of Dale,” the elleth continued softly, “but we could not overtly help the Dwarrow.”

Balin, whose face had been drawn in lines of sorrow, his thoughts following the lines of Thorin’s, perked up. “What do you mean ‘overtly’?” The old diplomat was a wily soul, and he recognised cunning when he heard it. She _wanted_ him to ask, and Balin was inclined to oblige. He did not know what to believe – could not yet determine whether the story she told was true or not, no matter how much horrific sense it made – but only by keeping her talking would he be able to help his King decide whether their new companion was trustworthy.

Rhonith grinned; her bared teeth made even Nori draw away warily, which made Dwalin worried for a moment. Nori was used to moving among the worst of the seedy underbellies of the world; if _he_ was uneasy, thee was usually good reason to be afraid.

“Well…” she began slowly, “Thrór’s verdict pertained only to _Elves_ … If I stoop, and keep my ears disguised, I can pass for a full-blooded Dwarf; Frís helped me sneak into your camp. I called myself **magallabûna **[16]**** and Frís helped me create a story circle for the dwarflings.”

When she paused for a sip of mead, Thorin interrupted with a sudden epiphany, his earlier suspicions all but verified – the name magallabûna was one he had heard before, the name a visitor of Frís’ had given the Guard.

“You’re the one who sent Amad the packages with spices and jams every year for her birthday!” he exclaimed, which made Fíli, Kíli, Dwalin, and Balin gape. Each Dwarf had his favourite of the goods Frís would receive, but she had never revealed their benefactor.

“Yes, I am. What of it?” the elleth glared and Thorin subsided, feeling a little sheepish at his almost-accusatory outburst. Balin elbowed his arm.

“Thank you?” Thorin tried, though he feared it came out as a question rather than a statement. From his spot down the table, Nori sniggered and Thorin scowled at him. “We have all enjoyed the spoils of those shipments.”

“Blackberry jam for you, cinnamon for your sister, tea and orange spice marmalade for Frís, cardamom for Thráin, apples for Fíli, and orange fruits for Kíli,” she listed the contents of the last gift easily. “As well as a jug of my personal honey for Dwalin.” She smiled at him, and Thorin knew Dwalin was blushing slightly – he had an acknowledged sweet tooth and the honey had been used to make his favourite cakes and cookies.

“Aye. It arrived a few weeks before her birthday,” Thorin replied. “We didn’t know how to send word back that she was gone,” he added, feeling a resurgence of the guilt he had suffered for months after the crate of goods arrived, even if Dís’ practical words had convinced him to enjoy the treats as usual, finishing the last of his jam the morning he set off for the Lord’s Council. The only thing they hadn’t touched was Frís’ orange marmalade, each feeling that it was wrong to crack the wax seal on the jar without Frís there to take the first sniff. “But there was no letter included.” Even to his own ears, it sounded like a paltry defence – Frís _definitely_ would have given him an earful for how he had treated her old friend – but the elleth just smiled at him.

“Sure there was,” Rhonith replied, waving away his guilty conscience easily, “my letters are always hidden beneath a false bottom in the crate of oranges.” Giving him another smile that still felt more fond than he had earned, she continued softly, “And the things were meant for you, whether Frís was alive to accept them or not…” For a moment, she faltered, sorrow shadowing the brightness of her smile. “I had wondered whether her reply had been lost,” Rhonith added softly, “but it was simple enough to fashion another for this year’s shipment. Cevenil will be sending it off soon, though I suppose the Rangers will simply deliver it into the hands of your sister…”

Thorin felt, if anything, worse at the easy way she forgave him, hearing again the mellifluous voice of his Amad and knowing exactly how she’d scold him. The voice that told him not to trust any Elf was growing fainter in his mind, unsettling him further.

“So what happened in Mirkwood with the story circle,” Kíli asked, trying to take his mind off his beloved oranges languishing in Imladris. Dís had warned her family that without talking to their secret gift-giver, they couldn’t expect more packages of treats, so they had all stretched the supplies all winter, and Kíli had mourned on the day he had shared his last orange with his Amad, who had always loved oranges too.

“Well, even in those days,” Rhonith began, “travel through Mirkwood was not without its dangers… even for a large group. Thranduil gave orders to guard the caravan and the Guard patrols that circled you would sneak sacks of food to me every day.” She smiled her scary smile again, and Thorin suddenly felt quite glad that he was _not_ Thrór. “King Thrór only said he would not _see_ any elves… but if an Elf does not want to be found, it is almost impossible to do so – even more so in our own forests.”

Kíli chuckled, though he was the only one who found the thought of Mirkwood amusing; Ori was serious by nature, and the rest of them either remembered or knew enough to be wary of the dark trees. Thorin squeezed Dwalin’s hand, knowing that they were both thinking about Thráin’s doomed expedition.

“I can pass for a tall dwarf if I keep my ears hidden and stick to speaking Khuzdul,” Rhonith shrugged, “and that’s how it worked. Every day, someone would sneak a sack of lembas breads to me, and I’d share out small bites to the dwarflings, telling them stories while their parents set up camp.” She sighed heavily, sorrow permeating the air around her in an almost tangible way. Thorin shivered. “There were so many hungry children,” Rhonith said quietly. The feeling of grief hanging in the air spread to the rest of them – everyone had lost kin to the Dragon, but many had been lost in the days and weeks following the Sack of Erebor. “Several of my friends spent days chasing deer towards you that you might hunt for food, treating it like a game almost…” she chuckled softly, though it held little joy, “‘who can get closest to dwarf-camp without being spotted’.” Shaking her head with fond amusement, she added, “I believe Prince Legolas’ group won.”

Privately, Thorin wondered if he was destined to learn that everything he had _thought_ he knew was a fallacy, and even though it still grated to owe gratitude to _elves_ he felt the sensation fill his soul nonetheless, thinking about the lives that had indubitably been saved by what she called a ‘game’. Surviving in Exile had not been a game, not to him, though trying to keep his people reasonably safe and fed sometimes seemed an insurmountable task.

The Company stared, those who remembered the trip through Mirkwood shuddering. If that had been with the aid of Elves, how much worse could it have been? Balin shared a glance with Thorin and a quick Iglishmêk conversation confirmed his thought. They owed Thranduil a heavy debt of gratitude, no matter how much the fact annoyed him.

“There were so many orphans and lost children,” Rhonith mused, “I grew fond of many, although there was one little lad in particular who was special to me,” she smiled wistfully. “He never gave me his name, but he called me his **zarsthuhrunana** ,” she paused slightly, looking at Bilbo, “it means forest sister. We had the same colour hair,” she chuckled, stroking the braid that framed her left cheek, “and I was the first he’d seen with that colour apart from his mother, so I had to be his sister.” She laughed softly, lost in her memories.

Dori stiffened, while Ori’s eyes widened almost comically, staring silently at the elleth who did not notice. Nori, as always, remained inscrutable, but his left hand twitched slightly, as though he, too, wanted to reach out to grip Dori’s hand.

“He was less than ten years of age at the time, but so very brave,” Rhonith continued, a softly wistful smile playing around her lips. “Even though he could find neither his father or his mother. I don’t think he had much in the way of family or wealth; his clothes were not very fine, even though he seemed well cared for and well-mannered.”

“What happened to him?” Fíli asked gently.

Rhonith smiled brightly at him. “His mother finally found him, on the last night before you all left the forest,” she said. “I’d wrapped him in my cloak for the night and he was almost asleep when this frantic dwarrowdam came running, hardly daring to hope; she’d been on the other end of the caravan and thought her child perished in the mountain with his father, who had been a guard and brought the lad with him to work.” She smiled again, and Thorin had the odd thought that she had been a parent – _maybe still was?_ – herself, the way her smile curved reminding him of his sister at her most maternal. “I have rarely seen a happier face than in that one shining moment when she realised that the worst had not happened at all… You all left next day, and we melted back into the trees. I bade goodbye to my little friend on the forest’s edge, but I have often wondered what happened to my **karkîth sanzigil** [17] – if he even remembers spending those nights in my arms.”

“He does,” Dori interrupted, silent tears coursing down his cheeks. “And he told his brothers about his **zarsthuhrunana** with the mithril hair. That cloak was well used over many years. Ori was swaddled in the last of the fabric when he was born.”

Pandemonium erupted. Nori and Ori were both gaping at this childhood bedtime story come to life, and Rhonith herself seemed slightly bowled over by his revelation, though she smiled brilliantly when Dori shook her hand, introducing himself properly.

Óin, who had fallen asleep shortly after he finished his breakfast, was still snoring in the corner. Glóin, who had brought out the locket containing pictures of his family, kept silent, for once, sitting next to Bifur who had been whittling with his cousin – creating small Dwarven chess-pieces to match the bears that Beorn had made for himself.

Bilbo, who was the least knowledgeable about Mirkwood and its dangers, even though the story had given him chills in places, was busy scarfing down a thick slice of bead and honey, intermittently lecturing Bombur on the merits of seven meals a day. The cook, who couldn’t help but compare the small Hobbit to his son Blákur – still growing, even though he was of a height with Bilbo – felt quietly horrified by the thought that they had unintentionally been starving their smallest member. He had realised, of course, that Master Baggins was not so plump as he had been upon first meeting, but they had all bulked up before they left, knowing that supplies on such a long journey were bound to be scarce and adding more holes to their belts as they went along.

Gandalf, quite satisfied with the outcome of his request, simply sat in a corner with his pipe; he’d heard the story of ‘dwarf-tag’ before, of course.

Thorin stayed in his seat, the twinge in his ribs forgotten in favour of brooding over the revelations about his grandfather – and his mother. Balin slid out of his seat, joining his brother in offering silent support to his King. Eventually, Glóin joined them in a low conversation; the four of them would have to decide whether what the strange dwarf-elf – dwelf? – had said could be believed. Unfortunately for Thorin’s peace of mind, her story made only too much sense. The question remained, however, how this information could affect the quest.

Slowly, the late afternoon passed into night, and although Thorin’s mind was still filled with whirling thoughts, only Dwalin and Balin remained up with him.

“Was she right?” Thorin asked, watching the fire flicker in Beorn’s hearth, the flames throwing pictures of shadows on the wall behind him. “About Thrór, I mean? I believe her about knowing Amad, one of her beads bears the same mark that used to decorate Amad’s marmalade pots… the ones she never would tell us who sent – which makes sense.” Again, he felt a flicker of guilt at the thought that it was _his_ animosity that had kept Frís’ friend from visiting.

Dwalin silently puffed on the pipe he had borrowed from Beorn. The Man himself did not smoke, but he grew tobacco plants and spent long winter nights carving beautiful animal decorated objects; pipes, game pieces, furniture, and whatever else struck his fancy.

“Lad… Thrór was...” Balin began slowly, also staring into the flickering flames, “I wish I could say she was wrong, but though I didn’t serve him in Erebor, Fundin would have agreed with her – and I think we both know that the loss of Erebor only increased the madness. Mahal’s beard, laddie, you had to pull him out of the treasury yourself when Smaug attacked!” Balin frowned and puffed on his brother’s pipe before continuing thoughtfully, “if she really is **Usakh** , and _I_ believe she is, she has little reason to lie to you. I recon we can trust her. She can’t help who her father was after all.” Thorin nodded slowly.

“I’ve never heard of Usakh, but you and Ori looked like you could be knocked down by a feather when she said it. What does it mean?” the King asked. The brothers passed the pipe between them once more before Balin replied, as calmly as when he had been instructing Thorin on the history of their race.

“It was an old legend, that Durin the 4th had a prophetic dream of his own death and his people’s flight from Khazad-dûm. His heir would be too young to rule, and Durin went into seclusion, to beg the Maker’s guidance in his hour of need. Mahal told his child that the dream would not become reality in that lifetime, but when the hour was closer, He would send him the Watcher, Usakh, who would be trusted by all Dwarrow and who would guide his son until he was grown. At first, Durin VI’s advisors were outraged by the idea that they were unfit to guide their Prince, but the King persevered. And Usakh came, and carried the little Prince out of Khazad-dûm like Mahal had promised, raising him to be King of Erebor – later on Ered Mithrim. Little is known of the actual person, and only a few lines in **id-‘Ukmathu Durin**[18] describe the coming of Usakh. None of the versions I’ve seen has mentioned her elven blood, but it does explain why the title Usakh is mentioned in several histories of times of great peril for our race… and not just among Longbeards.”

“I don’t remember the title,” Thorin said. Balin gave him a sad smile. “I don’t think you would have known to look for it – in the stories of Thorin I that you read growing up, Usakh was referred to by the name the King gave them, not the title that became the embodiment of the person after his death.”

“Sharul…” Thorin whispered, a snippet of long-forgotten memory stirring in the back of his mind.

“It is generally believed that Usakh is either a complimentary title in honour of the first Usakh,” Balin added, his voice taking on the excitement of an academic discussing an interesting topic. Dwalin hid a smile in his bushy beard, passing his pipe to Thorin. “Or that the person is one of the **Khuzd Haga Zudur **[19]** ** like yourself,” Balin continued solemnly, “being born with memories of previous Usâkh would have explained the presence of such a person too.”

 

 

 

 

[8] West-Gate of Moria

[9] _The Watcher, She who is trusted by Mahal_

[10] May Mahal welcome you and may your path to the Halls of Waiting be straight, my friend.

[11] Are you insane?

[12] Pointy-eared lembas-muncher. He betrayed us!

[13] You are so simple you couldn’t sell pie to a starving Hobbit.

[14] Children of Mahal – the Dwarven name for their own race.

[15] Thranduil’s name most like means this, though it is debated. It refers to the habit of naming rulers for their lands, specifically the fast river that runs through his forest, as well as their personalities. He has other names, but consider Thranduil his most public name, usable by anyone, rather than more personal names used only by close friends and family. The verb Athra- meaning across(Athrad is a (river-)crossing). Duin means large river with strong current.

[16] She who continues to speak

[17] Kakîth Sanzigil = young mithril shard

[18] The Greatest Song of Durin – ie. The Long Lay, which Gimli quotes in Moria.

[19] Very Important Dwarf – those who have memories of previous lives, although they are not reborn, like Durin, simply carrying echoes of Dwarrow who have gone to the Halls of Waiting, but who still have lessons or guidance to offer the Dwarven race. Such dwarrow are usually named after the one whose memories they bear. Thorin carries echoes of Thorin I, who resettled the dwarrow in the Grey Mountains after the fall of Khazad-dûm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter belongs the short story Bâhayê http://archiveofourown.org/works/8782723 and we touch on the fate of Nínimeth, which is explored in [Sing me a Song of the Queen who is Gone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8653180)


	4. Stories and Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New information is considered and weighed against old knowledge. Another story is told, with surprising consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've used poetic license and made Thorin I the grandson of Durin VI rather than great grandson. In canon, Erebor was founded( TA 1999) by Thráin I after the fall of Khazad-dûm, who became King at age 47. Thorin I(King TA 2190-2289) moved the largest part of Durin's Folk to the Grey Mountains when it proved better able to sustain a large number of Dwarrow. GM was settled in TA 2210. I've only swapped these two by name, as the trials of Thráin I match the ones of Thorin II in creating a new settlement from a position of exile, rather than moving the seat of power to a place already largely settled.

In the morning, Thorin sought out Rhonith again. She was sitting outside, braiding flowers into a crown and singing softly. Her voice was a pleasant alto, weaving the soft melody as deftly as her fingers wove the flowers she held.

 _The wheels of life keep turning._  
_Spinning without control;_   
_The wheels of the heart keep yearning_   
_For the sound of the singing soul._

 _And nights are full with weeping_   
_For sins of the past we've sown;_   
_But, tomorrow is ours for the keeping,_   
_Tomorrow the future's shown._

 

For a moment, Thorin stood silent, listening to the song and the chirps of the birds in the tree above her, feeling an odd sort of peace sneak up on him – less foreign than what he had attributed to the powers of Elrond in Rivendell and not nearly so strong, but somehow the song was as soothing to him as an old lullaby.

“Good morning, **Uzbad dulgu Sigintarâgu **[20]**** ,” Rhonith greeted softly. Thorin started lightly; she still had her back turned, how could she know it was him? “I trust you are well?”

“I will be fine, Lady Rhonith,” Thorin replied, slightly curt. “However, I wished to ask you more questions about Mirkwood, if you would not mind,” he continued, making an effort to speak politely as he opened with the topic he and Balin had decided to question her on the night before; Dwalin had cautioned him to keep a lid on his temper, and Thorin was happy that the Fundinson brothers had not decided to follow him into the peaceful garden to ensure he remained civil.

“Ask what you wish to know,” Rhonith replied lightly, her eyes returning to the plants in her lap. What Thorin really wanted to know in that moment was whether that type of annoying serenity that seemed common to all those of Elven blood was something bred into the race, or whether it was learned from birth. It was probably rude to ask, he thought, something only youth would excuse, like some of Kíli’s or Fíli’s outbursts, and he squashed the urge ruthlessly, sticking to Balin’s plan. The conditions they might face among the trees of that dark place weighed heavily on both Thorin’s and Balin’s minds, and even though Dwalin had remained stoically silent on the topic, Thorin knew him well enough to see the deep unease he hid from the rest of the Company.

“How do we get through the forest quickly?” Thorin asked, cutting swiftly to the heart of things. Rhonith tilted her head, considering him evenly, her unsettlingly familiar eyes narrowing in thought. “We haven’t got that much time left and it is a treacherous place. You hear about travellers going missing and insane in there,” Thorin added, belatedly realising that the tone of his voice gave away the anxiety he had not even realised ran so deeply. Dark memories filled his mind in an instant; Dwalin had made it back, more than half-dead, but the rest of the guards who had gone along with Thráin – as well as the King himself – had not. Until meeting Gandalf the year before, Thorin had stubbornly believed that his father was alive, and the loss of that belief still hurt. The wizard claimed to have buried Thráin’s corpse, but that was not the same as watching his father’s bones be returned to the stone properly, with all the accompanying Song and ritual required to farewell a King.

“There are paths…” Rhonith replied softly, giving him a feeling that she saw right through him, even though her eyes had returned to her plants when he focused back on the sunlit garden. “As long as you stay on the path, you should be fine…” Looking up, her eyes narrowed in warning. “Do not drink any water you might find in there,” she continued, “nor light fires at night or attempt to hunt game.”

Thorin felt his heart sink – equipping fifteen people with provisions for an extended trek seemed far to much to ask of their new acquaintance; even asking would be a violation of courtesy, he knew, hearing Frís’ gentle voice echo through time and memory.

Rhonith sighed, weaving another stem into her creation, “The best way to get through Mirkwood is to get an elf to guide you,” she said, “but for that you’d have to approach either a border patrol – or make your way to the Elvenking’s Halls.”

“Would you guide us?” Thorin asked, knowing it was a long shot, but Balin had been adamant that they should ask, and Dwalin’s haunting stories of his last experience in the accursed forest had made up his mind.

“I could, Master Oakenshield,” Rhonith frowned softly, “but it would be very impolite of me to sneak you through without notifying Thranduil; he has ever been a good friend to me, and I should not like to have him wroth with me.”

Thorin did understand her point, but he still felt a black cloud descending on his mood. Nonetheless, he nodded, a defeated sigh escaping before he could stop it.

“Given the erratic patterns of the patrols, it would also be nigh impossible to sneak through, even with my aid,” Rhonith continued, giving him a gentle smile, her next words giving him a glimmer of hope. “It has been a few years since I was last in Mirkwood, and I suppose it is time for a visit… If I were to be your guide, however,” she added sharply, “I would lead you to Thranduil’s Halls and obtain you guest rights – if you attempted to walk the paths unaided, I doubt you would last long without getting confused and disoriented by the spells that have been laid over the land…” Thorin opened his mouth to protest – his Company was made of hardy Dwarrow, not so susceptible to Elf-Magic, Rhonith continued unperturbed by his dark scowl: “Walking through Mirkwood as my guests would offer you some protection – and might make Thranduil more amenable to your presence… and your Quest.”

She still looked disturbed by the thought of that, but Thorin did not comment, wondering just how close she was to the Elvenking I she could be so certain her presence would grant them such easements.

“I would… be amenable to reforming the alliance that once existed between our peoples,” Thorin said, surprised that the words were not harder to get past the guard of his teeth. Rhonith’s answering smile made the day even lighter, as though she spun her happiness into her hair. Shaking his head to rid himself of such silly notions, Thorin continued, “Erebor is in the middle of dead land… if it is reclaimed, it will not sustain my people.”

“The elves could help revive the soil of the Desolation,” Rhonith nodded, “though I should expect Thranduil to demand some tokens of good faith from you – the return of the long-lost white gems of Lasgalen would be a good start.” She shot him a shrewd look.

Thorin scowled. He still did not care for the haughty King of Mirkwood, no matter what she said. On the other hand, he had dealt with more unsavoury characters for the betterment of his people – meeting with the Elvenking would be no different than a trade negotiation.

Rhonith continued blithely, “Have you given more thought to the problem of slaying the dragon? I will admit that if you do not have a plan, Thranduil is likely to keep you until you come up with a satisfactory one. He will not risk the dragon burning his forest.” She shuddered.

“We are not experienced in dragon slaying,” Thorin admitted, accepting the lead into his next topic of questioning easily. “The whole Ereborian army could not kill him last time. How does one kill a dragon within a mountain?” Dwalin had argued for that question, which Thorin had not objected to; he too had noticed that Gandalf had not actually proclaimed any experience in dragon-slaying back in Bag End, and expected no real help from that quarter.

Rhonith grumbled something insulting in Khuzdul under her breath before continuing in regular Westron. “Hrmph! I knew Mithrandir didn’t have a plan… Bloody meddlesome wizard!”

Thorin had to stifle his smirk.

“There are ways,” Rhonith said, her eyes once more dark with that sorrow he had noticed the day before. “You will need stealth and the element of surprise,” she added. “Arrows could do it, I suppose, but you’d need more than the one archer you have now. The problem is that a dragon is so large that any arrow shorter than 3 feet is unlikely to penetrate deep enough to do any significant damage. You could go the route of poisoned arrows, but again, dragons are so large that even if you managed to poison Smaug, he could take days or weeks to die, and be quite free to avenge himself meanwhile.” Again, she seemed far away, rubbing her arms as though she was cold. “If the dragon leaves the mountain, you need archers with armour piercing strength or ballistae. Then you’d shoot for the heart or the wings, to bring him to ground to finish him off. That would be more feasible with an army, however.”

“Does Smaug have no true weaknesses?” Thorin wondered.

“If the stories from Dale are true, Lord Girion managed to knock a breast scale loose with a black arrow… That would be a weak spot,” Rhonith sighed heavily, shrugging off the shadows and turning her face towards the sun, her eyes closed. “If that is unfeasible, a spear through the eye and into the brain would work, but you’d need to get close enough for that, which would only be possible when the dragon slept – and he would wake ere long when he smelled you, I shouldn’t doubt.”

“That’s why Gandalf wanted us to bring a Hobbit,” Thorin admitted, the idea still not at all sensible to him – regardless of Bilbo’s recent heroics. “Bilbo was meant to go in first, make an attempt to steal the Arkenstone – and then I would use it to call the armies of the Seven Fathers.”

Rhonith snorted in disbelief. “That is the most _insane_ plan I have ever heard,” she scoffed. “Dragons know their hoards to the smallest golden coin! Stealing as much as a goblet would be suicide – taking the Arkenstone…” She chuckled mirthlessly, “Smaug would destroy _all_ of you, Esgaroth, and Mirkwood along with it, and _then_ his rage would turn to the rest of the world! How many lives would be lost before your messengers to the rest of the Lords’ Council would even reach them, let alone the time it takes to outfit an army and march upon Erebor!” Jumping to her feet, she paced agitatedly. “If you are determined to reclaim Erebor, Thorin, you _must_ kill the dragon – before he leaves the mountain!”

“So, truly, our best bet is to hope that someone in Laketown has a black arrow they’ve saved for 160 years?” Thorin asked, incredulous. The task, which had appeared so doable back in the Hobbit’s cosy home, even with the disappointing answer from the Lords’ Council, now seemed beyond insurmountable in Thorin’s mind.

She nodded slowly. “Not much is tough enough to pierce dragon hide,” she replied. “Although your Gondolin sword should be,” she added, gesturing towards the large cabin where Dwalin had taken Thorin’s sword out onto the porch, cleaning the blade meticulously. “It _is_ from Gondolin, is it not?”

“So Lord Elrond said.” Thorin nodded, feeling a surge of love fill him at the small private smile Dwalin flashed him.

“Well, Elrond would know,” Rhonith shrugged, folding her legs beneath her once more, her temper released for now. “His Great-grandfather founded Gondolin, you see.” Rhonith returned her attention to the plants she had dropped, weaving the stems gently between each other. “Why did you decide to attempt to regain Erebor, Master Oakenshield?” she asked softly, looking at him with his own eyes, her hand stilling at their work as she waited for his answer, something unreadable lurking in the mind behind her eyes.

“Well,” Thorin began, almost surprising himself when the truth fell from his lips, “I could tell you that it came down to Óin reading the portents and saying that it was time according to prophecy.” He shrugged lightly. “Or I could tell you that the dragon hasn’t been seen for 60 years, so it might be dead.”

Rhonith scoffed at that, shaking her head silently.

Thorin smiled wryly, he did not believe that theory either; he rather thought the Beast would soon wake from hunger. “I could claim it was for the gold,” he added honestly, feeling a frisson of fear as he remembered the conversation he had overheard in Rivendell – Thrór’s madness had run much deeper than he had ever imagined, even in his darkest dreams, “but deep down… it is for my people.”

Rhonith nodded, her smile softening at the edges – Thorin once more had that strange feeling of kinship, though her relationship with his mother might make sense of her otherwise inexplicably deep fondness for him. “We yet survive in Ered Luin, but what we do there is barely living,” he admitted softly, feeling his heart squeeze with the old pain of inadequacy. “The land around the Blue Mountains is mostly barren and the mines are almost empty. Each year, we die a little more: Fewer children are conceived and those who are carried to term do not always live to see their first birthday… If I can reclaim Erebor, my people will have a future. One in which they don’t have to slave for Men or turn every coin, just to get by.” Sighing, he gazed east, imagining that he could see that solitary peak he had spotted from the Carrock. “Mostly…” he whispered softly, “it’s because Erebor is _home_. I was born there, and I’d like to return to the stone there.” Swallowing hard, he suddenly decided that he _did_ believe her version of the Sack of Erebor. “If the coming of Smaug was brought upon us by my grandfather,” he admitted slowly, “it is my duty to regain our family honour by slaying the fiend… The world is not safe while the dragon yet lives.”

“You remind me of Durin the 4th a little,” Rhonith said softly, making Thorin stiffen as he suddenly remembered her presence.

“I don’t think I’m Durin Reborn,” he replied, more sharply than intended, but the elleth did not take offense.

“No, you are not my uncle reborn, Master Oakenshield,” she chuckled wryly, “but that was not what I meant.” Pausing, her brows furrowed lightly as she sorted out her words. “He was the kind of king who would walk the marketplaces in the Lower Commons and sing with the minstrels; he knew the small cares of his people as well as their greatest needs. Durin… he always _saw_ the world, and not just for his own people; he cared about the world outside his own Realm. In his fourth life, he fought side by side with Elrond in the War of the Last Alliance, sparking a close friendship that had its tentative beginning in his third life… I believe they still have some of his clothes in his room in Imladris.” She smiled softly, lost in visions of ages past, “He was your ancestor several times over, is it odd that you should have inherited characteristics from him?” she mused, weaving the final stems together. Setting the crown in her lap, she continued softly, “There are all types of kings Thorin… Some begin well and end badly, like Thrór – some begin as weak characters and manage to find hidden strength – and some kings overcome both their own weaknesses and the perils of the world, all for the sake of their people.” Smiling at him, she got to her feet, “I have known many rulers over the years, Master Oakenshield, but not many who have suffered tragedies such as yours. I will be interested to see what your end will be.”

“Hopefully not fiery,” Thorin quipped, startling a laugh from her.

“I should hope not,” she smiled though it held an edge of sharpness. “I told you my title, Master Oakenshield,” she added, “though I did not speak much of my oath… I swore to watch over our people for as long as I’d wander Middle-Earth, to help them and especially help their kings, when they needed guidance,” her sapphire gaze fixed on the stern lines of Thorin’s face and softened noticeably, “I think you fall in that category. As much as you have been a leader of your people since Azanulbizar, you will need advisors when you ascend the throne properly. If you wish it, I will offer my aid to you.”

“I will consider all that you have said,” Thorin replied, though the small voice in his head that usually spoke with his sister’s no-nonsense practicality urged him to accept her offer.

Rhonith smirked at him. “The offer stands, Uzbad Thorin,” she said, moving swifter than he had believed possible, placing the flower crown on his head at just the right moment to be spotted by his rascally nephews. “Think about it. Durin’s folk need a wiser ruler this time around.” Her sunny laugh floated back to him as she disappeared, leaving Fíli and Kíli busy falling over with laughter.

Thorin angrily tore off the flowery adornment and tossed it onto Kíli’s head, creating a mock skirmish between the three of them and Dwalin who’d walked by and got caught in the action.

 

The skirmish on the lawn ended shortly, leaving Fíli crowned with flowers and scowling at his younger brother. Dwalin shook his head at the three of them, eyeing Thorin’s torso with some worry, but his love seemed much improved already, his laughter making Dwalin feel light.

“Lovely crown Fíli,” Bilbo remarked as he strolled out for a smoke on the porch, “it’s a good omen for the future. Did you make it?”

“It is? Rhonith gave it to me,” Thorin scowled, grabbing the crown off Fíli’s head and carrying it to Bilbo, whose cheeks seemed a bit flush, his eyes darting between Thorin and Dwalin. Dwalin chuckled; he hadn’t realised that Bilbo didn’t know – the relationship between himself and Thorin was an open secret after all these years among their own people, after all. “What does it mean?”

“Pine, that’s Hope in adversity,” Bilbo began, pointing at one of the bits of greenery, “and then monkshood for chivalry, blue hyacinth for constancy and hazels for peace…” Turning the crown over in his hands, he smiled to himself, brushing his fingers over some of the plants with gentle care. “She’s very good. Then again, she claimed she had lived in the Shire, I’d have been surprised if she didn’t know.”

“But what does it mean?” Thorin pressed, frowning lightly at the genuine admiration on the Hobbit’s face.

“Carry on with honour,” Bilbo replied thoughtfully. “This weave adds an element of future strife, but also speaks of the path to peace. In one way it means ‘Do not give up’, and in another it says ‘you are stronger than you think’…”

“Flowers can do all that?” Kíli boggled. Dwalin shrugged, equally baffled.

Bilbo sniffed, squaring his shoulders in the amusing way he always did whenever he felt his people’s ways being disparaged. “Of course, they can!” he exclaimed, segueing into a long-winded tale about a distant cousin’s feud with a different branch of his family that Kíli seemed to find surprisingly interesting – personally, Dwalin thought it might have been improved by axes used for weaponry instead of posies, but it was undeniably less painful to receive a bunch of greenery than an axe blow. Dwalin snuck the crown from Thorin’s hands and plopped it back on his head with a smirk.

“It seems our bonnie lass has some unexpected talents,” Balin laughed.

Thorin’s answering glare mellowed slightly when he caught sight of Dwalin’s expression; it seemed he had been fully forgiven for his insane stunt with Azog. Thorin could only guess at what he had done, on his first drug-riddled night in Beorn’s home, though with his extensive injuries it could not have been anything _too_ strenuous. He smiled cautiously at his One, relieved when he got another kiss for his trouble. Dwalin’s temper burned hotly like all their kin, but its flames died quickly too. Tugging Dwalin by the hand, he planted a gentle kiss on his lips, feeling that his world was at peace once more.

 

* * *

 

 

Nori found the Elf on the roof, singing to herself in that gibberish Elvish language he’d never bothered to learn more than curses in. Her hands were occupied with carving a piece of applewood, but as he gracefully folded his legs underneath him and sat down next to her, they stilled and she looked at him expectantly, song tapering off into anticipatory silence.

“I wondered…would you tell us more about Khazad-dûm tonight?”

Rhonith cocked her head and studied the star haired dwarf beside her. “You wish for tales of life there? Or just stories of mithril crafting and jewels galore?”

“Anything, really. Ori wanted to ask you, but he is rather shy, even if you are now our adopted sister,” Nori grinned cheekily and Rhonith couldn’t help but grin back, “Ori’s always been keen on history…and not many books made it out of Erebor, so the selection has been slim. We barely know anything about Khazad-dûm apart from the Lay of Durin the Deathless. If you let him, he’ll pick apart your memory and write down your entire history,” Nori finished, giving her his best ingratiating smile.

Rhonith laughed, “Have those eyes ever worked on anyone?” Nori smirked. “If young Master Ori wishes it, I can certainly tell a tale or two… Don’t you think he might prefer a tale from Erebor instead, though?” she mused. “I could tell the story of Sigvór the Beautiful perhaps.”

“Who’s Sigvór?” Nori was drawing a blank, “I’ve never heard of her.”

“I will tell her tale then,” Rhonith nodded. She was quite fond of little Ori “I think young Thorin might enjoy it even if he is less than pleased with me at the moment.”

Nori spluttered, “Thorin? Young? He’s 195!”

A ringing peal of laughter sounded over Beorn’s garden. Several dogs twitched their ears towards the Elf and the Dwarf on the roof and a bird replied with a short thrill.

“Indeed, Master Nori,” Rhonith chuckled, “but compared to any of you _I_ am very old and _you_ all seem incredibly young to me. This is my five-thousand-one-hundred-and- _sixth_ year upon Arda.”

Nori sucked in a breath and whistled softly, “I never thought of it that way… I mean, I knew you had been around for a long time, but that many years of life is… hard to fathom.”

“Such is the lot of mortals; you feel the years differently than we do,” Rhonith said gently. “I will see you at dinner.” With those words and a quick smile, she jumped off the roof, flipped in mid-air and landed lightly on her feet. Resuming the soft song, Rhonith walked out of sight.

Nori stared after her for a long time, lost in thought.

 

* * *

 

 

“She offered to help me when I am King – as an advisor of sorts,” Thorin said, relaying his talks with their elf. He and Balin had appropriated a garden bench for a smoke and a quiet discussion. “Perhaps liaison to the Elves?”

Balin nodded, contemplatively puffing on his pipe. “Not a bad idea, Thorin,” he remarked sagely, aiming a wry smirk at his king. “Diplomacy with Elves is not your strong suit.”

“True enough,” Thorin chuckled, nodding in agreement with his old friend’s assessment. “I will ask her for aid and input on our dealings with the pointy-ears, then.”

“First lesson, Master Oakenshield,” a bemused voice intoned behind them, “don’t call us pointy-ears.”

Balin groaned and Thorin’s head whipped around to scowl at the Elf in the trees behind them.

Rhonith jumped lithely to the ground and sketched an amused bow at the two dwarrow. “Second lesson. Elves blend in with nature very well and have very keen senses, hearing, sight, smell…” she shot him a wink, “insulting one within their hearing is bad form.”

“A fair point, Lady Rhonith,” Thorin replied. He did not need Balin’s elbow in his gut – though he was thankful the advisor was on his uninjured side – to tell him that he ought to be more polite than he had just exhibited being capable of. “Though my advisors do not call me Master Oakenshield… please call me Thorin.”

Rhonith bowed her head in what could really only be called a regal manner and replied softly, “Then I am at your service for as long as I am needed. ‘ **Ala abnathi **[21]****.”

The King held out his hand, clasping the elleth’s firmly to seal the agreement, startled by the light shock that seemed to pass through him.

 

_…Young Thorin could only stare at the girl who had appeared in the study like smoke. He wanted to call for the guards, but his grandfather’s hand on his shoulder stilled him. Looking up, he frowned at the sight of grandfather Durin’s wide smile. The hood was lowered, revealing pale skin and mithril-bright hair. Her blue eyes were those of the Durin line and her smile was radiant._

_“Sister-child,” grandfather greeted, getting up from his chair and clasping the tall girl – she was an_ elf _– in a kin-blessing. Thorin’s confusion grew. How did grandfather have an elf for his sister’s child? This incarnation hadn’t even_ had _a sister! “Many years have passed since these eyes last saw you, but your face ever shines in my memory,” Durin rumbled._

_“Uncle. It is good to see you once more,” she replied softly, smiling at grandfather. “I bring you greetings from the Lady of the Golden Wood.”_

_The Dwarf-King of Khazad-dûm smiled graciously and Thorin had to believe that she was a relation of his._

_“She has been a firm ally for many years, indeed, wee Geira – but allow me to properly introduce my grandson and youngest heir, Thorin,” Durin replied. Grandfather’s hand on his back pushed him half a step forwards, but the girl knelt so they were the same height._

_“Hello Uzbadith,” she said softly. Thorin took her hand dumbly, shaking it only because that was how he had been taught to greet strangers. “I am Usakh.”_

_…_

 

Thorin froze, his hand falling down to hang loosely at his side, staring after the bright hair of Rhonith as she skipped back towards the house. One whispered word left his lips, but the elleth was long gone and did not hear him.

“ **Sharul**[22].”

Balin shot him a look, clearly stating that he did not understand what his King meant, but he didn’t pry.

The Memories of his long-dead namesake had always come to him in dreams… and had never been triggered by the simple touch of another. They had also mostly concerned themselves with the practicalities of resettling a people and how to go about ensuring that food and shelter were in adequate supply.

Thorin knew that his work – with the added guidance of the ancestor whose trails had most matched his own – was the reason their settlement was now referred to as **Thorinuldûm**[23] by his people, even if it was not his claimed hall.

When they had finally reached Ered Luin, Thrór’s mind had been circling Moria’s lost wealth for a long time, and he viewed the ruins of Gabilgathol[24] as a simple stepping-stone towards a glorious future. Thráin had by-and-large shared his father’s views, but Thorin had been more cautious. Encouraged by Princess Frís, he had gone to work on making more permanent settlements in the ruined mountains possible.

 

* * *

 

 

After dinner, the Company gathered by Beorn’s massive hearth. The promise of a tale of yore proved an exceptionally powerful lure on all the Dwarrow – even Dwalin, who’d never had much time for scholarly pursuits and tended to leave such things to his brother.

“I’ve been asked to tell a story – I promise that this one will have no Elves,” Rhonith winked at Thorin, who flushed and turned to glare into the fire, still unsettled by his earlier Memory. “Instead I will tell you the story of Sigvór **Benmar**[25] of **Zeleg'ubraz** in **Thafar’abbad**.” She looked kindly at Bilbo, “That means Golden Stair, which was the capital of the Longbeards in the Grey Mountains, Ered Mithrim.”

Ori interrupted, “Is she allowed to tell him what Khuzdul words mean?”

A stern look was levelled at the young dwarf who flushed and ducked his head shyly. “If Bilbo Baggins is not a Dwarf-Friend yet – and to my mind his actions have already earned him the distinction – he will have earned the title twice over by the time you reach Erebor for certain.”

Thorin nodded regally, his heavy mass of curls tumbling about his shoulders, “Peace, Ori. I trust the Lady Rhonith will not abuse the trust placed in her.”

He was rewarded with a beaming smile and a happy “Thank you.”.

Thorin returned her words with a small nod.

“So, Sigvór,” Rhonith began, “The first thing anyone would tell you about young Sigvór is that she was beautiful. And that would be sheer truth. Sigvór was beautiful, one of the most famed beauties of her race. Her auburn beard was like silk and her eyes were golden. Like all dams, Sigvór had fire in her heart, but her beauty made her cold and aloof to others.”

Kíli elbowed his brother at those words, exchanging a cheeky grin.

“You see, Sigvór was the daughter and only child of a noble lord of Ered Mithrim. Not a very important dwarf, mind, but he and his wife had aspirations of power and Sigvór’s beauty seemed to them the perfect tool to further that goal. It was said of her that she embodied the best of Dwarrow-kind; the fire of a forge and the golden glow of our greatest treasures.

Sigvór wanted none of their machinations, however; she was as stubborn as a true daughter of Mahal and though she had many suitors vying for her hand, she had decided early in life that her one love would be her craft.

Instead of playing games of courtly intrigue, Sigvór passed her days with crafting or sparring. She was an engraver of great skill and could make the finest filigree inlays. Although you might have thought she’d work with gold, she favoured silver for crafting. Her inlays quickly caught the attentions of the well-to-do in Ered Mithrim, and soon her work was seen adorning many members of the Royal Court. She made acquaintances with the Royal Princes one day when Grór had dragged his brothers to the marketplace to search for gifts for their Amad’s Nameday celebration.

Now, no one had ever called the Crown Prince timid or shy, but Sigvór made him speechless. And yet Thrór kept returning, purchasing more and more elaborate work as an excuse to stare at the beautiful dam, never asking her to a dance or pursuing any other avenues of courting.

Sigvór tended to allow it, for she was a little intrigued by this bumbling dwarf who bore no resemblance to the suave and sophisticated Crown Prince from the tales she’d heard. He never managed to speak to her of anything but her Craft and yet his eyes would blaze at her every time she caught them.

Years went by like this. The King despaired of his son ever managing to get anywhere with Sigvór. If he could never manage to speak to her, surely he would never win her heart.

At the same time, suitors kept coming to Sigvór’s door, even though she had made it quite clear that she wished to remain Craft-Wed.” Taking a sip of her drink, Rhonith added thoughtfully, “I suspect her parents were behind that, personally, but I never met them.”

Thorin’s fingers were wrapped around Dwalin’s beneath the table, the story different from the version he had been told as a dwarfling, but not as biased against Thrór as he would have expected based on Lady Rhonith’s earlier vehemence.

“One day, Sigvór was walking in the marketplace, when she was approached by one of her former suitors. She had refused him even more vehemently than most, as his possessive and jealous nature had scared her. He attacked Sigvór, attempting to stab his dagger into her eye. She managed to twist away from his grip, and the knife that might have killed her only carved her face open, leaving a scar from her hair line to her chin. She did not lose her eye, but her face was stuck in a perpetual half snarl when it healed.

In the eyes of her parents, she was ruined and as she was no longer beautiful, the suitors who had been chasing her so diligently soon dispersed. Sigvór buried herself in her workshop, attempting to lose herself in her Craft.

Bleak weeks passed. Then Thrór came once again, to gaze on the love of his soul and order a gift for his brother’s coming of age. At first, Sigvór wanted to refuse him entry, for she could not bear to see those blue eyes clouded with pity or disgust when he looked at her disfigured face.

She knew, however, that she would miss the quiet dwarf and his arduous gaze – what if he never came back? All that day, as she worked on the gift, they talked, and she did not look up once. Thrór was heartbroken, thinking he’d taken too long and she was now truly Craft-Wed. As he was leaving, he turned back for one last look and called her beautiful. She slapped him.”

Dwalin guffawed and the young princes snickered; this tale was different to any other story they’d ever been told about their great-grandfather. It was difficult to believe that the imposing dwarf of Thorin’s tales had ever been so hopelessly bumbling.

“In her rage, Sigvór was glorious. The row that followed was so loud that people in the area called for the guards, thinking that a murder would happen soon,” Rhonith chuckled merrily, winking at Kíli, who grinned back. “The guards arrived in the middle of their first kiss, when Sigvór had shouted herself tired and realised that Thrór saw her beauty of spirit, not just flesh. Thrór later admitted that he had those four guardsmen reassigned to the coldest, harshest posts in the mountain as revenge.”

A round of raucous laughter followed as the dwarrow poked at each other.

“Of course, rumours that the Crown Prince had finally won over his **Kurdel**[26] were all over the mountain by morning, and the wedding took place soon after. Sigvór always claimed that she never felt more beautiful than under the eyes of her husband, and they ruled wisely together until she died.”

“I see my Adad made grandfather seem rather more capable in his version,” Thorin chuckled, “I didn’t know how she got the scar, but it was in all the paintings of her Thráin kept… Adad claimed she wouldn’t let them paint her without it.”

“Sigvór was a fiery dam, more than capable of holding her own against her **yásûn**[27],” Rhonith chuckled. “Your father was not yet 40 when she died,” she added quietly, “trying to make him an older brother. The child – your aunt – survived only three days and Thrór was a broken dwarf ever since.”

The rest of the Company hadn’t grasped the significance of the tale, but Thorin was gaping incredulusly at her. “My father had a sister?!” he cried, aghast. “I never knew that!” Scrubbing his hands across his face, trying to push away the image of the last pebble funeral he had presided over shortly before they left, substituting the cheap swaddling cloth for the silks and furs that would have clad a Princess of Erebor, Thorin tangled his hands in his braids.

Balin’s comforting hand fell on his shoulder, squeezing gently.

Dwalin was scowling at the elf over Thorin’s shoulder. His hands squeezed tightly around Thorin’s thigh.

Rhonith bit her lip, “I’m sorry, Thorin… I only ever seem to hurt you with my tales. I promise it was not my intention to upset. I thought...” she trailed off, leaving her thought unfinished and getting up from the bench.

 

A few hours later, once Balin and Dwalin had managed to restore Thorin to a level of composure he could live with and gone to bed, Thorin was joined again by the solemn Elf, her eyes veiled by a sorrow too deep for the pain she had caused him – in truth it was less the story than the memories it had brought up that haunted him.

“I wish to apologise again for the upset I caused you earlier,” Rhonith said softly. “Nori told me very few histories made it out of Erebor, and I only wished to entertain young Ori with a tale from days gone by. Although it has less bloodshed or grudges than most great Dwarven romances, the tale of Thrór and Sigvór was legend even before her death.” She reached out and grasped Thorin’s closed fist, squeezing softly. “I have made you a gift, if you will accept it, though it is not my usual craft…” Handing over a folded piece of parchment, she left the three of them to stare into the flickering flames of Beorn’s hearth.

Thorin slowly unfolded the paper, gasping at the sight of the picture drawn on the parchment. From the page, four people stared up at him. His father, with a soft smile on his face and an arm wrapped around a Frís decades younger than he had last seen her and much more content than she had ever been in his memory, even before Erebor fell. He traced his mother’s face slowly, missing her with a grief that had hardly diminished in the year since her passing. Next to his parents stood a dwarf in the prime of his life, beard carefully plaited and wrapped with clasps of silver to offset his dark hair. Thrór had been very handsome as a young dwarf, he realised, holding hands with Sigvór, who had indeed been a true beauty; her eyes seemed to blaze with the fire of her happiness even in the simple sketch. Thorin simply stared, noticing details he had never thought of – they had had no images of Queen Sigvór after the Fall – such as how the shape of her nose matched Fíli’s or how her beard had the same curls as Dís’. 

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Bilbo found the elleth outside, surrounded by the flowers of Beorn’s meadow once more and playing fetch with a small puppy.

“What does it mean, Dwarf-friend?” he asked.

“Ah, Bilbo. I wondered if you would be overcome by your natural curiosity.” Rhonith smiled, “To be a Dwarf-Friend is quite special. It is a title usually granted by a ruler of the Dwarven race and it is an honorific bestowed upon those who have performed great services to the race as a whole. The title also entitles you to learn Khuzdul, in the understanding that you do not teach it to others, of course.” She gave him a small smile.

Bilbo nodded – if he had noticed nothing else about Dwarven culture, it was the protective secrecy that surrounded their own language.

“You have left your home on a quest to reclaim the lost Dwarven Kingdom of Erebor, a quest many dwarrow feared to be a part of and indeed it may yet cost your life,” Rhonith explained, continuing when Bilbo did not seem to grasp the enormity of what he should be offered. “Furthermore, you have single-handedly saved the future King from certain death, at no thought to your own life. That is a debt Thorin may never be able to repay, something he is well aware of. That act alone would ensure you goodwill and welcome at the hearth of any dwarf who owes him allegiance. Saving his life as you did is no small matter to Dwarrow, Master Baggins. In bygone ages, there would have been an official ceremony naming you a Dwarf-Friend of Durin’s Line, but such ceremonies can only be done in Thorin’s true court.”

“But… I don’t understand,” Bilbo fidgeted with the buttons Bofur had carved for him to replace the two that had been lost in his cliffside tumble.

Tilting her head, the elleth studied the hobbit. “Understand what, Bilbo?” she smiled kindly, patting the ground beside her.

The hobbit sat, gathering his thoughts. “Why is it special that I saved him?” he asked, frowning thoughtfully as he considered what he remembered of the Troll Fight. “Dwalin has done so and several of the others have put themselves between Thorin and harm.”

“But you are not a Dwarf, Bilbo,” Rhonith replied gently. “Dwalin could never let his Kurdel come to harm if he could prevent it, but Thorin is the King, even if he was never properly crowned, and it is the solemn duty of any Dwarf who has sworn him fealty to protect him.”

Bilbo nodded, even if the concepts seemed terribly foreign to him – and not a little peculiar. “What’s a Kurdel, then? You mentioned it in last night’s story, but you did not explain it.”

“Kurdel is Khuzdul for Heart of all Hearts. It is one of the ways we refer to our Ones, our,” she paused, “our soulmate, if you will. The dwarf who was crafted from the same stone as you, whose Soul sings with yours, is your Heart of Hearts. Not… _necessarily_ your spouse, but a very important and beloved person nonetheless.”

“Spouse?” Bilbo squeaked. “They’re married?!” He suddenly understood the strength of Dwalin’s glare after Thorin had pulled him up to the ledge on the terrible night in the Misty Mountains and why the bald dwarf had grasped their leader’s arm so tightly.

Rhonith chuckled. “Dwalin Fundinul and Thorin Thráinul are not married, Bilbo, but when Erebor is reclaimed, I’m sure they will be as soon as possible. They have waited many years for that day.”

“Why?” Bilbo wondered for a moment if it was because they were both males, but he dismissed that though almost immediately; he’d noticed Nori and Bofur together in Rivendell and no one had remarked on that coupling… then again, Bofur and Nori were not _Kings._

“Ahh, my dear hobbit,” Rhonith smiled, scratching the puppy’s soft ear and laughing brightly when it licked her hand in return. “Here we enter the realm of traditions, Dwarrow politics, and culture – I’ll try to keep it simple: Thorin is the King of the Longbeards, **Uzbad Sigintarâgu** , Fíli is the **Ze’rayad** , the First Heir, and Kíli is **Rayad-dehar** , the Anvil-Heir. The Longbeards, the Firebeards, and the Broadbeams live together under his rule as High-King and have done so since the abandonment of Belegost and Nogrod, but he is in truth King-in-Exile, **Uzbadu dulgu** , which means that he does not have a True Hall – a Court, if you will.”

Bilbo nodded, committing the terms to memory.

“Thorin could claim the settlement in Ered Luin his Court – and indeed the largest town is indeed called Thorin’s Halls – but it would mean giving up the dream of Erebor’s throne… forever.”

“As for his marriage to Dwalin,” Rhonith continued softly, stroking the brown fur of the puppy who had fallen asleep in her lap, “a Dwarf of Royal blood – that is, a member of the direct Line of Durin, in this case – cannot be married anywhere but in his own Halls… which means that marrying Dwalin would require Thorin forfeiting Erebor to whomever might claim it.”

“But they _are_ a couple?” Bilbo asked, his scholar’s heart beating a little faster at the thought of learning more about the enigmatic Dwarven culture he kept catching inexplicable glances of now that someone seemed willing to teach him.

“Yes. Thorin and Dwalin live together as a couple, but until Erebor is reclaimed, Dwalin is simply considered Thorin’s lover, not his Consort. When Thorin takes the Raven Crown as **Uzbadu** **‘Urd’êk** , Dwalin will be **Zadanâlu** **‘Urd’êk** , his Prince-Consort. On that day, I would expect him to name you **‘Ubahu Khazâd**[28], for your deeds on this quest.”

Bilbo nodded again, head spinning with the new information.

 

 

 

[20] King-in-exile of the Longbeards

[21] This I swear

[22] Smoke-like

[23] Thorin’s Halls

[24] Belegost

[25] The Beautiful (literally, supreme beauty)

[26] Heart of hearts

[27] Husband

[28] Greatest friend of dwarrow.


	5. Mirkwood Looming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The value of a good song is explored, and a dark walk is begun. A meeting of friends and an escort is found.

A few days later, the Company set off on ponies laden with food, for though the Eagles of Manwë had born them far from the mountains, there was still a ways to go before they reached the gloomy edge of Mirkwood. The journey from Beorn’s lands would take another four days. The dwarrow had accepted their newest travelling companion, but were still somewhat leery of what they had termed her ‘Elvish nonsense’, like the constant singing. Not that her voice was bad or overly loud, nor that Dwarrow as a people did not enjoy singing, it was more that they would have enjoyed it more if they had either understood it or it had been less about trees and flowers. The only one who seemed entirely comfortable was Bilbo Baggins, who even joined in with a few Shire compositions. It came to a head about a day from Mirkwood, when Dwalin finally lost his patience and shouted at her, “ **Targ Mahalul** , lass! At least sing a good Dwarven song if you must sing!” he glowered back at the Elf riding behind him between Nori and Ori. Nori smirked at Dwalin, smug that for once the guardsman’s glare wasn’t directed at him. He sent a saucy wink at Dwalin, who flushed slightly and turned around quickly. Ilsamirë giggled at the sight and called back, “A Dwarven song, Master Dwalin? Very well. How about this one?

 _Oh ro soon shall I see them;_  
_Oh he ro see them oh see them._  
_Oh ro soon shall I see them the_  
_mist covered mountains of home._

 _There shall I visit the place of my birth_  
_And they'll give me a welcome the warmest on earth_  
_All so loving and kind full of music and mirth,_  
_In the sweet sounding language of home._

 _Oh ro soon shall I see them;_  
_Oh he ro see them oh see them._  
_Oh ro soon shall I see them the_  
_mist covered mountains of home._

 _There shall I gaze on the mountains again,_  
_On the fields and the woods and the burns and the glens,_  
_Away 'mong the corries beyond human ken_  
_In the haunts of the deer I will roam_

 _Oh ro soon shall I see them;_  
_Oh he ro see them oh see them._  
_Oh ro soon shall I see them the_  
_mist covered mountains of home."_

Her voice flowed easily through the verses, but each Dwarf could tell that the song meant something to her. Thorin had stiffened, as soon as the first notes sounded. One of his dreams at Beorn’s had involved her singing that song…as a lullaby for him, after the loss of Khazad-dûm. “Is that Dwarven enough for you, Master Dwalin? It is a song written by a traveller from Khazad-dûm, whose name was forgotten long before my birth. It was sung when marching home from war or travels. Some sang it to remember, after Khazad-dûm was lost. The dwarrow taught it to the Elves, and the Elves of Lothlórien sing it still although they have added verses for the forest.” Dwalin blushed and Nori sent him a cheeky smile. They rode on.

“Why do you sing all the time?” Ori shyly looked at Ilsamirë. The young scribe was still a little awed at meeting his childhood bedtime story, but Dori’s obvious approval made him less hesitant when it came to asking questions. Their zarsthuhrunana always answered him easily, even when Ori thought his questions might be considered slightly rude. He just got excited with each new bit of knowledge he learned, and didn’t always consider how he phrased his questions. At least he wasn’t as indelicate as Kíli, however, Ori thought. Fíli had asked Ilsamirë whether she had children – if there was a whole line of part-Dwarven Elves no one knew about, and Kíli had made an unfortunate comparison to mules and the sterility of most hybrid species. The elleth had not been angered, had not even been offended, but Dori had been livid. Thorin had glared at his nephew until Kíli stammered an apology. While they had all been staring at the youngest Prince’s reddening ears, however, Ilsamirë had vanished. Things had been tense for a while that evening, and Kíli had been rather subdued for the rest of their stay at Beorn’s house.

“Elves sing, Master Ori, to remember. Many of my people do not read or write, especially the Sindarin and Silvan Elves, who dwell in Mirkwood. Song is a part of our souls. Elves sing to the world, and Arda sings to us in return. The stars sung for the very first Elves and Elves have been returning the songs ever since. If you listen, the mountains and the stone will sing for you as they sung for my Amad.” She paused, smiling fondly with just a touch of bittersweet melancholy. “That song reminds me of her, she taught it to me. She has been dead for more than 4000 years, yet I still miss her smile and the warmth of her arms as she sung me to sleep.”

Kíli piped up, “Our mum is back in Ered Luin. I miss her.” He was still slightly apprehensive about speaking up in the presence of their elleth. Uncle Thorin had chewed him out harshly the night he had inadvertently insulted her, and he had yet to gather up the courage to formally apologise.

Ilsamirë nodded solemnly, “Of course you do, **u’zaghith**[32]. I’m sure she misses you too. Dís did not wish to join the Company?” She did not hold a grudge against Kíli, who had simply been thoughtless rather than intentionally cruel. Not all dwarrowdams had children – by choice or by nature – of course, but it was not a topic of casual conversation between new acquaintances whether someone was among those who were denied the gift of the Life-Bringer.

“Amad is **Uzbadnâtha** **Sigintarâgu**.” Fíli replied, riding up beside his brother and Ori. He kicked Kíli’s leg lightly, out of sight of the two others. Kíli scowled, but nodded. He would apologise. “She is Regent while Uncle Thorin is gone.”

“I had never expected to meet Frís’s grandchildren,” Ilsamirë smiled happily, “though I wondered what you all looked like over the years. A skilled drawer, Frís was not, sadly. The similarity between you and Frerin is remarkable, Fíli, though Kíli seems to take after Thorin. Except the archery, the bow was Frerin’s preferred weapon too, and of course, we taught Frís when she was young.”

“Really?” Kíli said, “She gave me my first bow. Amadel always said she learned from the best.” Ilsamirë laughed lightly.

“That was not me. I’m a decent hunter but for fighting I prefer a blade in my hand though I have used my bow in war too. I never got the hang of fighting with axes, sadly, which my Amad lamented, as the great-axe was her favourite weapon.” She smiled softly at a memory of a long-ago afternoon spent watching Narví practising her axe forms.

“Amad uses two swords like Fíli, though she also carries a battle-axe when she travels. She is a skilled warrior, and if Amadel had still been alive, she would have joined the Quest, I’m sure.” Kíli’s pride was clear in his voice as he launched into a longer monologue about his mother’s prowess in the rings; Dís had won the dual-wielding sword tournaments for the last 60 years. Fíli had been the runner-up for the past twenty, but Dís would always have some sort of move he did not expect that let her snatch victory. It was something Kíli found endlessly amusing, and Fíli equally frustrating. The younger Prince only competed in the two-handed sword bouts, and usually only to the point that he wouldn’t get laughed at for bowing out, his true joy lying in the archery competitions. Kíli was also shrewd enough to know that going up against Uncle Thorin in a real tournament fight would only end with Fíli having ammunition to pay him back the last two decades worth of jokes at his brother’s expense for losing to their Amad. It was another weapon with which to torment Fíli that Kíli had never _officially_ lost to Uncle Thorin – sparring did not count – and Kíli used it with great glee. “I’m sure your Amad is proud of you for coming on this quest.” The elleth said quietly. She had studied the young sons of Dís during the days she had walked among the Company, and they were good lads, if a bit hot-headed and mischievous at times. In truth, she felt like she knew them quite well already, even if Frís had never attempted to draw her their faces. Her letters had been filled with tales of Dwarfling escapades, but also stories of the dwarrow her grandsons were becoming, possibly more insightful than either Prince would have wished. 

Fíli snorted, “She didn’t want us to come.” Beside him, Kíli nodded fervently. Dís had definitely made her feelings on the subject clear, though she had not tried to stop them.

A smile fleetingly crossed Ilsamirë’s features as she cast her clear sapphire gaze on the young Prince. “Perhaps not; no mother would wish her child in danger. Furthermore, your grandmother was Lady Frís, and I am certain that any daughter of hers would have harangued you to be safe and return to her, right up until you left her sight. That makes her no less proud of her sons for doing what they feel is right, for their king and their people. She has raised honourable sons,” she cast a shrewd eye on the two princes who sat up straighter at her praise. Ilsamirë smiled and continued, “Believe me, Prince Fíli, your mother is very proud of you and your brother. She is also terrified for all of you, she misses you like a lost limb and her first words to you when you are reunited will most likely be a scolding for any new scars you have acquired on the journey,” she winked at Kíli, who grinned broadly, “It is simply what mothers do.” Thorin had to hide a smile at the reactions of his nephews. He and Balin had attempted to allay those fears in the youths, but perhaps a new voice would be better believed.

“Thank you, Lady Ilsamirë,” Fíli bowed from atop his pony. He nudged his mount forward, flashing a subtle sign to make Ori follow him, leaving Kíli to ride beside the elleth.

“I wish to apologise, my Lady,” Kíli began hesitantly. “My words the other night were unkind and rude.” Ilsamirë held up her hand to stop him.

“Do not fret, Kíli. I did not mean to make you feel as though you had done me wrong. The truth is that I am alone. I am the only one of my kind ever to live beyond the mother’s womb, and it is very unlikely that another Elf will father a child like me. Your comparison – while not particularly polite – is likely to be accurate, though I doubt I will put it to the test. I bear you no ill will.” Kíli drew a small sigh of relief. Uncle Thorin would stop giving him the ‘I am disappointed in you’-stare now. With a smile, he pulled his promise stone out of his pocket, rubbing the engraving for luck. A thought and a pang of longing for his Amad hit him, but he told himself that Dís was safe in Ered Luin. Gimmers would look after her, as promised, though Kíli still wished that he could have received a reply to the letter he and Fíli had written in Rivendell. The Elf Erestor, Lord Elrond’s Steward, had been kind enough to offer to pass on letters to a Ranger who would bring them to the Blue Mountains.

“What’s that?” The quiet voice of Master Baggins almost made Kíli drop his stone, but he kept hold of it, turning it over in his palm to display it to the Hobbit, who was keenly interested in learning more about the secretive Dwarrow and their rich culture. He had been so quiet that those riding in front had all but forgotten he was present, and he had been soaking up the small titbits of knowledge eagerly. Ori had taught him words for family relations, but he noticed that the princes referred to their grandmother as Amadel, rather than sigin’amad, which puzzled him. His query was forgotten when Kíli began explaining what his stone represented, however.

“A Promise Stone,” Kíli began, uncharacteristically solemn as he traced each rune on his stone. “This is labradorite, my Soul-Stone. It’s a sacred promise. They’re said to help you keep whatever is carved into them coming true, like a talisman. My mother gave me this one, after the Singer had blessed it with all the usual spells.” He explained.

“Spells? Like Gandalf does?” Bilbo wondered. He had not thought the Races of Middle-Earth could do magic. In the little he had considered such a phenomenon – the existence of which was widely considered impossible – he had thought it the provenance of Wizards, not ordinary folk. Even if a Dwarf-Princess might not be considered entirely ordinary, she was still a Dwarf, not a Wizard.

“This is Deep Lore, Bilbo. Sacred to our people,” Ilsamirë said quietly beside him. Kíli nodded seriously.

“The Singers are those whose senses are attuned to the Voice. Some say it’s magic, some say it’s just something we believe, but Dwarrow know that our Maker speaks to us. The Singers hear the Voice and bring the Word to the Children of Mahal,” he recited, “Mahal is the Voice and the Way. Mahal’s are the Halls and the Mountains.” He smiled kindly at Bilbo, who seemed a little lost. Hobbits did not pray to any particular Vala, aside from thanking Yavannah for the bountiful harvests in the autumn, but that was just tradition, not actual religion like Kíli’s words implied.

“The Singers are called Singers because they can sing to the Stone, make it resonate in special ways, preparing it for different purposes, be they ritual or mundane.” Fíli added, having fallen back once more to ride beside his brother. Ori had taken up position near Bifur, enjoying the quiet that tended to surround him, drawing random sketches of Beorn’s lands. Bifur had calmly taken over the reins of his pony, even if the animal seemed content to follow their line without input from its rider. “Kíli’s stone is a labradorite, the stone that resonated with his soul on his First Name-Day, and thus it is connected to him on a deep level.Mine is lapis lazuli. Carving his promise into such a stone and then having a Singer make the stone resonate with its message is a powerful token.”

“What does it say?” Bilbo asked. He recognised the characters from Ilsamirë’s lesson, but he did not know the word.

“Innikhdê.” Kíli said. “It means ‘Return to Me’. Mum gave one to Fíli too, with the same message, but Thorin won’t show us his.” The young prince grumbled, but he carefully returned the smooth stone to the pouch he carried around his neck. Behind him, Ilsamirë smiled softly.

 

* * *

 

Mirkwood loomed ahead, gloomy and silent, leeching the warmth from the afternoon sun. The trees seemed to Bilbo as if they exuded a low level of pure menace, but the dwarrow appeared unaffected so he decided not to mention the way his stomach was churning. Gandalf caused another argument with Thorin when he announced his imminent departure, but the ponies were unloaded quickly amidst all the grumbling. Ilsamirë’s gaze clouded with worry as her eyes followed his horse heading south. He had told her of the Morgul blade Radagast had discovered, and she knew where he was heading. If it had not been paramount to see her kin through Thranduil’s Woodland Realm, she would have joined the wizard on his quest. If Mithrandir was worried, it was a good idea to be wary in general, and considering the importance of their current quest and the danger they were likely to face, he must have felt his business very pressing and alarming indeed to abandon them thus. Ilsamirë shook off her darkened thoughts and squared her shoulders, turning to face the Company. “Mirkwood will be dangerous to you. The forest is covered in magicks designed to disorient unwelcome travellers. You will have to be careful to stay on the path. You will find neither suitable firewood nor drinkable water in the forest, so stock up on water here. We should rest the night and enter in the morning.” Behind her, Bilbo shuddered. He was not looking forward to entering the forest. Thorin, however, followed her advice, waving them all to set up camp while he studied the Forest’s edge with Dwalin and Bifur.

 

* * *

 

 

Most of the Company sat silently around the fire, already influenced by the oppressive gloom exuding from the unfriendly trees. Bofur tried to whistle as he and Bifur whittled, but the tune petered out quickly.

“You are all feeling the effects settle in your minds,” Ilsamirë said quietly. She did not feel it herself, but the effects on her companions were evident already. “I guess the border spells have been strengthened since my last visit. Bofur, sing a happy tune for us? Chase away this gloom. Being under the trees will be unhealthy enough for you, no reason to feel bad already.”

“What song would ya like, lass?” Bofur did not really want to sing, but he figured it was a sign of the spells affecting him, and gamely got to his feet. 

“Sing me something from your favourite tavern at home. I haven’t been to a true Dwarven inn in many years, you must have new tunes to share.” Ilsamirë winked at the usually cheerful dwarf, who seemed startled to have been put in the centre of attention but rallied quickly. Bofur looked askance at Nori, whom he assumed would be the most knowledgeable of tavern songs and able to sing with him. He would not be repeating the song he had performed on their last night at the Woolly Bear, but he knew plenty others after all.

“Well, there is ‘Pour your brother’ if you want a new song, although ‘Man in the Moon’ is an old favourite. I sung that in Rivendell, you know.” Bofur admitted, feeling slightly sheepish when he thought of the expression on Lord Elron’s minstrel’s face, but Ilsamirë simply laughed heartily, lifting the spirits of the group slightly with the sound of her mirth.

“As much as I would have enjoyed that experience, I’ve never heard ‘Pour your brother’, you must teach me!”

“Well, it goes something like this…“ Bifur pulled out a flute and began playing a few quick notes as Bofur started singing and stamping the rhythm, joined swiftly by Nori clapping and a few others joining in on the chorus:

 _Pour your brother one more round_  
_Pick each other off the ground_  
_Let another chorus sound_  
_Pour your brother another round_

 _Draw another draught for me_  
_Drink 'til I'm too blind to see_  
_This one's done, pray, get me three!_  
_Draw another draught for me_  
  
_Pour your brother one more round_  
_Pick each other off the ground_  
_Let another chorus sound_  
_Pour your brother another round_

 _Cheers to the brewer, for his brew_  
_Without this ale we cannot do_  
_Drink until the cask is through_  
_Cheers to the brewer, for his brew_

 _Pour your brother one more round_  
_Pick each other off the ground_  
_Let another chorus sound_  
_Pour your brother another round_

 _Cheers to the barmaid, she’s a saint_  
_It’s wondrous how she stands the strain_  
_Catch me lass, I’m gonna faint_  
_Cheers to the barmaid, she’s a saint_

 _Pour your brother one more round_  
_Pick each other off the ground_  
_Let another chorus sound_  
_Pour your brother another round_

 _Dance unto the drummer’s beat_  
_Drink with everyone you meet_  
_Your head’ll dance without your feet_  
_Dance unto the drummer’s beat_

 _Pour your brother one more round_  
_Pick each other off the ground_  
_Let another chorus sound_  
_Pour your brother another round_

 _Cheers unto my faithful friend_  
_For on this ale his gold I'll spend_  
_The friendship and the song must end_  
_Cheers unto my faithful friend_ [33]

The rest of the Company eventually lost their glum expressions and a few were openly chuckling at the sight of Nori pulling Ilsamirë to her feet and twirling her around the fire.Even Dori chuckled. Bofur finished with a flourishing bow to the laughing girl. He then began a classic drinking song, entirely in Khuzdul:

 **_Ishlik! Ishlik! Ishlik!_ **  
**_D'azâg lakhad ins sanzigil, tân tanlikhîn!_ **  
**_Ishlik! Ishlik! Ishlik!_ **  
**_Buhâ 'uglakh zai id-o'gil , tân tagkikhîn! **[34]**_ **

Spirits suitably lifted, the dwarrow slowly drifted off to sleep, protected by laughter and mirth.

 

* * *

 

 

When dawn’s light broke over the horizon, the dwarrow were already up and repacking. Water skins were filled and the most perishable food eaten. Eventually, all packs had been shared out evenly and the Company were as prepared as they could reasonably be. They set off down the path solemnly. Each of them felt wary and jumpy from the unnerving stillness of the trees around them. Once they were all under the boughs, the Elf began to sing again, causing the nervous dwarrow to grumble at her. None of them felt like being discovered by anything that would call this grim place home. Their campfire (the dwarrow had decided that the warning about burning the wood was simply Elvish nonsense) that night had to be put out, for fear of the giant moths it attracted. Undaunted by the grim mood of the dwarrow around her, Ilsamirë kept singing softly as she walked slightly ahead of the group. A few days in, Ori finally gathered enough courage to ask her why she insisted on singing. The Elf paused her song and looked back at the dwarrow, who were watching her with differing levels of annoyance and anger. She smiled softly.

“The guards are always listening, Ori. It has been custom of Mirkwood for more than 3000 years that you pay for passage with a song, if you are indeed friendly with the people who dwell here. The songs change, but there are several which convey one’s intent and nature. I am simply announcing my visit and my desire to meet the king. I am also naming him a friend of mine, just in case whoever is on the patrol does not know of me. The patrol will dispatch a runner to the Halls to the North and Thranduil will know by my choice of song that it is me, that I am in the company of Dwarrow, and that I am not here by force. I told you the magic of Mirkwood is insidious. Unfriendly visitors are made to see visions, leave the paths and walk in circles until they are weakened by hunger and thirst. Only then will the Elves make themselves known to those they wish to take for interrogation or simply leave the unlucky person to the mercy of the wildlife.”

Ilsamirë continued singing, knowing they had wandered far enough that a patrol would most likely be close enough to hear her.

 _When in the springtime of the year_  
_When the trees are crowned with leaves_  
_When the ash and oak and the birch and yew_  
_Are dressed in ribbons fair_

 _When owls call the breathless moon_  
_In the blue veil of the night_  
_The shadows of the trees appear_  
_Amidst the lantern light_

 _We've been rambling all the night_  
_And some time of this day_  
_Now returning back again_  
_We bring a garland gay_

 _Who will go down to those shady groves_  
_And summon the shadows there_  
_And tie a ribbon on those sheltering arms_  
_In the springtime of the year_

 _The songs of birds seem to fill the wood_  
_That when the fiddler plays_  
_All their voices can be heard_  
_Long past their woodland days_

 _We've been rambling all the night_  
_And some time of this day_  
_Now returning back again_  
_We bring a garland gay_ **[35]**

“What would happen if you weren’t singing?” Ori wondered. Her adding that the song meant she was not there ‘by force’ was both a worry and a comfort, he thought, wondering what the aforementioned guards would consider ‘by force’…and what they would do to release her. Was her friendship with their King enough to make them kill the Company?

“We would shoot you long before you knew we were here, young dwarf, for you would have captured one of our most beloved elleths.” A low menacing voice sounded, and suddenly they were surrounded by Elven warriors, bows drawn and arrows nocked. Ori squeaked once and went very pale very quickly. Dori pulled him back behind Glóin as the Company closed ranks and drew their weapons, ready to sell their lives dearly. “Long has it been since your voice sounded under our leaves, Rhonith. _N'uir thiad gîn 'ell_[36].”

“ _Glasseg! Mae g’ovannen, mellon-nîn **[37]**_.” Chiding laughter spilled from the elleth among them as she looked up at the canopy overhead. “Do stop this silly game, you are unnerving my companions.” A lithe Elf jumped down and landed agilely in front of her. Several of the dwarrow jumped slightly (not that they’d ever admit to it). The new arrival smirked and gave them a dismissive once-over before issuing a command in his lilting Elvish. The guards lowered their weapons and Ilsamirë took a step forwards, reaching up to touch and stroke the ears of the leader. His hands followed the same path, smiling happily at her. The blue eyes of the new Elf were bright with laughter as he bent slightly to rest his forehead against Ilsamirë’s, speaking softly in Sindarin. The guards looked on with indulgent expressions, though they kept the Company surrounded. The dwarrow were vacillating between confused and bemused. Finally, Thorin cleared his throat pointedly, which made the guards half-raise their weapons again, before a gesture from their leader had the bows sinking once more. He lifted his head once more, but kept looking at the elleth in front of him, smiling.

“ _It is indeed good to see you, mellon-nîn. Adar will be glad of your visit._ ” The elf couldn’t stop a slight expression of annoyance from crossing his face as he gazed at the circle of dwarrow, who were glaring at him threateningly. “I see you have brought Naugrim with you,” – Ilsamirë scowled – “fine, Dwarrow,” he sighed, put-upon, “Who are they?”

“Incorrigible princeling,” she replied, but her voice was fond and her fingers never stopped stroking the points of his ears, “You are lucky you are my favourite. I present to you Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thraín, son of Thrór, and his Company. Everyone, this is Prince Legolas go-Thranduil of the Woodland Realm.”

Legolas fairly gaped at her, something the younger dwarrow had not thought elves could even do; the Rivendell lot had been stoic to the point of indifference. Even their adventure in the fountain had not caused as much as a single raised eyebrow. “ _You brought anfangrim[38]to Greenwood AND he’s the heir of Thrór? Father will be unhappy_.” Thorin scowled, sure that he’d been insulted, even if he did not understand the fast-flowing syllables. Balin’s hand on his arm stayed his response. The old dwarf nodded subtly at their companion who was frowning at the newcomer.

Ilsamirë’s hands fell to her sides and she shot Legolas a level look and replied in lilting Sindarin, “ _You know as well as I do that a child is not his father. Even less his grandfather. We do not inherit the sins of our forebears, dear one. If so, you and I would be last among those who could judge him_.”

Legolas bowed slightly and took her hand, “ _Goheno nin_[39] , Rhonith. Your words are just and true, my Lady. My group will escort you to my father’s Halls and there you may plead your case.” He directed a glance at the guard surrounding them and muttered, “ _Aphado ven_[40].” At his signal, the rest of the elves seemingly vanished into the trees, but Legolas stayed beside Ilsamirë, chatting happily in Sindarin and blithely ignoring the scowling dwarrow.

When they made camp for the evening, Legolas introduced his companions by name. Curulhénes was a slender redhead with brown eyes, who smiled gently at the Company. Erfaron scowled forbiddingly at the collective dwarrow and wandered off with a quick hand signal. Dínelloth looked up when his name was mentioned, but then returned to the task of repairing the arrows in his hands. Beside him sat an elleth with mirthful eyes and a single massive blade. Legolas named her Thalawen. The two elves beside her were so similar that none of the dwarrow could tell which was which and were introduced as Tuilinthel and Arastor. A few of the dwarrow shot amused glances in Kíli’s direction, thinking fondly of their time in Rivendell and Kíli’s trouble identifying which Elves were females. The young Prince scowled at Nori’s unrepentant smirk. The last elf had a mischievous smile playing around his lips and stood, carefully pressing a kiss to Ilsamirë’s hand with a soft word – much to the grumbling of the dwarrow, who did not like the way the Elves seemed to take over _their_ elleth – and introduced himself as Faindirn. Which a cheeky grin at Legolas, whose back was to the Company and whose face more than conveyed his annoyance with the younger elf, Faindirn took a running jump and scampered into one of the tall trees. The Company heard a bird-call sound from above, but Faindirn did not return to the ground till morning. Thalawen chuckled, calling something to her commander that had his shoulders stiffening and Ilsamirë laughing.

“Faindirn means cloud watcher,” she explained amid chuckles at Ori’s puzzled expression. “Thalawen simply wondered if he thought my hair was spun from clouds.”

 

* * *

 

The Elvish escort meant that their route was far more direct than one they could have ever found themselves, and saw them through the safest parts of the forest, avoiding any of the dark creatures who dwelt there. They even built fires at night, which oddly did not attract moths. This didn’t do much for the mood of the Dwarrow; the eldest were reminded of their terrible flight from the mountain so long ago and the youngest were sobered by the silent presence of the tall elves. The Elves in Rivendell had been far less scary, although none of them could have quantified exactly how. They seemed fond of Ilsamirë, however, often laughing with her. Kíli attempted to engage some of the elves in conversation, but with little success. If they spoke Westron at all, they did not deign to converse with the dwarrow. Ilsamirë tried to keep her conversations in Westron, but she did not ignore the Elves when they spoke to her in Silvan. They trudged ever onwards. The oppressive silence of the trees still grated on their minds. It was simply unnatural not to hear even the slightest hint of birdsong or the rustling of mice in the undergrowth. Thorin’s scowl seemed affixed to his face, but for some reason Bilbo felt the unease that had settled in the pit of his stomach lift slightly in their company. At night, the elves would group on one side of the fire, singing softly to each other and running combs through each other’s hair, before they fell into reverie, never truly sleeping, and always one keeping watch. The songs were never loud and most seemed rather solemn, but they soothed the Company to sleep quickly. At night, Ilsamirë could be found on the dwarrow side of the fire, although she sang along with the elves.

 

* * *

 

 

One day, about a week after they had met the Dwarven group, Legolas called a halt for seemingly no reason, in the early afternoon. He looked at the axes of the dwarrow and smirked. Thorin was growing tired of the Prince’s smirks; they rivalled Kíli’s for mischief at times, though he found them far less endearing.

“ _Tawar-en-naur_[41] grows here, Rhonith. We will make camp and harvest new supplies. Your Dwarrow may take what they can carry. Come, Masters Dwarf, we will see that your axes are not just for decoration.” He laughed and bounded off into the trees, followed by the rest of the Elves. The Dwarrow were left steaming in anger at his words.

“I have to say, my Lady, for a prince, his manners leave much to be desired,” huffed Dori. Around them, the Company agreed, grumbling with annoyance.

Ilsamirë gave them a sparkling smile, “Legolas can be quite brash. You are the first dwarrow he has met, aside from infrequent diplomatic visitors to Mirkwood, and he is…unused to people who are not elves. Once he gets to know you, I’m certain you will find him a stalwart friend.” Dori just huffed again. Fíli snorted and glared at her.

“How are they getting to know us? None of them speak to us. Not even to Kíli and he can usually talk to anyone,” The Crown Prince groused, earning him several nods around the Company, but Ilsamirë did not agree.

“Young Ori has been speaking with Dínelloth, and I promise you the rest of them are listening to everything you say, even if they do not take part in your conversations. Elves are not dwarrow, Master Fíli, and you’d do well to remember. Elves prefer to observe before committing to any action. The fact that Legolas has allowed you to cut _tawar-en-naur_ is a sign of his high regard. These trees are well guarded and most who do not live in Mirkwood has never seen a tree of it, only the trader’s wood pieces.”

“But what is it?” Bilbo piped up from the back of the group. As much as his people enjoyed trees, it was mostly for the fruit, or for heat in winter, and the trees around him did not look like they’d make good firewood; why name them so?

“It translates as wood-of-fire, but dwarrow call it **balatursêl**[42].” Ilsamirë said. Balin gasped. Dwalin lost his scowl for a surprised mien and Thorin looked as if his Nameday had come early. The rest were simply confused.

“But what is it, Uncle? You look like it’s a great thing.” Kíli studied his uncle’s pleased expression.

“The **balatursêl** is the greatest aid for anyone working a fire, Kíli. With a small piece of this wood, you can begin a fire that will burn steady and true for a very long time. It’s as if those splinters change the property of the rest of the wood or coal in your fire. We had it in the forges of Erebor, but I have not seen any since the dragon. I never knew we bought it from Mirkwood, but my grandfather Hanar always had plenty in his forge. Lead on, my Lady, I would like to see what this tree looks like.” Thorin sent a rare smile in the direction the Elves had disappeared, though he didn’t care if they knew of his joy. Ilsamirë smiled and led them to a tree, which didn’t really look at all different from the rest of them. It was fairly tall, had greying bark and patches of lichen grew on the trunk. Kíli would have sworn that they’d passed trees just like it ever since entering the forest. He turned to Ori to ask, only to find the scribe busy sketching.

“These trees will, to you, look like any other tree around you.” Ilsamirë stated, “But they are not. These trees sing of fire, to the ear of an elf. In a way, they _want_ to be burned, and that’s the reason for their effects on your forge or hearth fires. Once, they were a source of much trade with the Dwarrow of Erebor and the Grey Mountains before them. I believe Thranduil still sends a few wains to the Iron Hills every year in return for iron.” Thranduil’s Realm boasted minable mountains to the north, but Wood-Elves were not miners, and the mountains mainly produced silver and cobber anyway. Before Smaug, there had been a profitable Dwarven mining company operating in the mountains of Eryn Lasgalen, but those who had worked there had lived in Erebor and followed their families into exile. Ilsamirë could not help but smile at the memory of the first time she had brought Hanar out to see the living tree that would become his **balatursêl** , but he had been just as unimpressed with the look of the tree as Kíli seemed to be. The youngest Prince was studying the tree they had been shown intently, before running over to the next tree and continuing his examination with a puzzled frown. She did not tell him that most of the trees in this valley were a kind with potential for becoming _tawar-en-naur_ , though not all of them were as tired as the one before them. To some trees, giving up was inconceivable, while these ones knew that removing a few of their number would allow new saplings room to grow and renew the land. The single tree was quickly felled, and the dwarrow had started to cut it into smaller pieces by the time the Elves returned, seemingly melting out of the surroundings in a way guaranteed to startle any Dwarf. Their packs had been filled with storm-broken branches, as none of them carried axes and to fell a tree was a rather unimaginable notion to any Elf – even if the tree asked for it!

“Good. You felled the tired one.” Legolas remarked. His even voice did not give away his mirth, at least not to the Company, who didn’t know him as well as Ilsamirë and the members of his patrol-group. 

Thorin startled and whipped around to glare at the elf looming over his shoulder. His temple braid, marking him as a Son of Durin, smacked into the Elf’s arm with a _twack_ sound and all the Elves stilled, tense. Then Legolas laughed, eyes dancing with mirth. His lithe shape shook with chuckles as he walked back to Ilsamirë’s side. The guards relaxed. Thorin was puzzled, but a glance at Ilsamirë’s fond smile convinced him to hold his tongue. He turned back to the tree Dwalin and Bifur were chopping to pieces. Once the tree had been turned into pieces of wood, no longer than a hand, the pieces were shared out between the dwarrow and the elves.

“You may keep what you carry, guests of Mirkwood.” With these words, Legolas turned sharply and continued on a few more miles before ordering camp to be made. He explained to a captivated Ori that the _tawar-en-naur_ was the reason they could build fires in Mirkwood and not be swarmed by moths. The wood simply gave off a smell that only moths noticed and which repelled them.

That night, Thorin cornered Ilsamirë and questioned her about the day’s significance. Balin had been unable to explain the sudden shift in the attitudes of their guards. They were still not particularly friendly, but a few had reintroduced themselves to him by name.

“Legolas stood in your personal space, and you touched him, meaning he let you into his. He considers you a benign acquaintance at least. You might not have noticed, but no elf will stand close enough to be touched by someone he distrusts. It goes double for Legolas, as a member of Royalty. Basically, he indicated that he trusts your friendly intentions and believes that you would not harm him unprovoked.” Thorin had to admit that the overall attitude of the elves had improved by Legolas’s gesture. Their reluctance to interact with the dwarrow remained, but he no longer felt as if their guards considered them a particularly unpleasant thing they’d stepped in and wished to scrape off their boots.

 

Ori liked Dínelloth, the most soft-spoken member of the Elven patrol. The archer had a passion for drawing, using plant dyes for painting and the two whiled away many hours of their trek discussing colours. Ori’s interest was mainly the use of paints to decorate his **Fahani-nashat** , and Dínelloth seemed amenable when Ori asked him if he could buy some inks made with Mirkwood flora. The young scribe had had an idea of creating the scrollwork borders on the illuminated pages with paints native to the area the pages concerned. Dínelloth’s constant shadow, Thalawen, was mostly a silent spectator to their chats, having little artistic talent, though she consented amiably when Ori asked to draw her. Thalawen’s quiet acceptance meant Ori received permission from the other Elves to portray them in his sketches. Kíli was slightly jealous at the acceptance Ori seemed to earn so easily, though he had managed to have conversations with Legolas, mainly about archery, when he could drag the Prince away from Ilsamirë. Erfaron, the one who had scowled when Legolas introduced him, never spoke, and was often absent for long hours at a time, scouting ahead and behind the group. Faindirn would usually go along, his sharp eyes keeping watch. Tuilinthel, named for her skill in dancing, Dínelloth had told Ori, and Arastor, her twin brother, made up the other team of trackers, and switched off scouting duties with Erfaron and Faindirn. The rest of the Elves seemed content to leave the Company alone and be left alone in return.

Thorin was not very fond of the Mirkwood patrol. The trip was better than he had feared, listening to Beorn’s warnings and Gandalf’s final admonishments. Balin’s frequent Iglishmêk warnings kept him from losing his temper with the Elves, who strained his patience daily. They were not – even Thorin had to admit that – being deliberately malicious, and he trusted that Ilsamirë would have told them if they were being led in the wrong direction. His own sense of direction, which had never been terribly good, told him they were heading steadily north-east, but the lack of any visible path among the spooky trees creeped him out. No beam of sunlight penetrated the heavy gloom beneath the boughs, and the very air itself seemed to weigh him down, both mentally and physically. Nori was the only one of them who seemed unaffected, though that might have been an act, the Black Owl rarely gave anything away if he didn’t want to.

 

“What is that?” Dori asked, one morning, pointing at something white, floating in the hazy air off to the side. Tuilinthel, walking nearest, followed his eyes, spitting out a low curse.

“Webs,” Arastor said, one of the first times he spoke to any of the Dwarrow. “Webs made by the giant spiders that have invaded our lands.” Legolas held up a hand, and the whole group came to a halt. The Prince pulled out his twin blades, while behind him, the other Elves drew their weapons.

“ _You should stay here, Rhonith_ ,” Legolas said quietly, but the peredhel had already pulled out her own swords.

“Not a chance,” she replied, in Westron. “I want to avenge Alphel as much as you do. If there is a nest here, we will put it to the torch.”

“Spiders…?” Dori continued, confused. “Why are you worried about a spider infestation?”

“Because these spiders, Master Dori,” Legolas replied, angry fire burning in his eyes, “are as tall as you, spawned of Ungolianth’s darkness. They came from the South, from the dark power in Dol Guldur, and they have killed many we held dear.” With a couple of hand signals, he sent Erfaron and Curulhénes into the trees in one direction, while Arastor and Tuilinthel went the other way. Faindirn, Dínelloth, and Thalawen remained with the Company, though Faindirn nimbly climbed a tree to pose as a lookout. “They killed my best friend and her husband, during our first attempt to raze Dol Guldur over two centuries ago. We lost all those who went to war against the creatures. Since then, we have patrolled the Forest, killing them and burning their nests, whenever we find them, but they are slowly moving closer to our home. Killing them is our first priority as Guard-Patrol of the Woodland Realm.”

A little while later, Faindirn’s signal sounded from above, having spotted Curulhénes’ flag which meant they had spotted their quarry. At the slight sound, a bird-call of some type, the remaining Elves sprung into action. Faindirn made a different call, which brought Arastor and Tuilinthel back from their scouting mission. Legolas set off in the direction Erfaron and Curulhénes had gone, Ilsamirë hot on his heels.

“ _Aphado ven!”_ she cried, weaving through the trees. Dínelloth and Thalawen followed.

“Let’s go,” Dwalin bellowed, running after the Elves, his axes flashing in his hands. Thorin did not even think about it before he went barrelling after Dwalin’s bulk. Orcrist’s edge shone with a deadly glint, almost like it was catching flashes of the sunlight that should have been piercing the darkened foliage far above his head. The Company ran after their leaders, each pulling out their own weapons. Soon, the Company got their first glimpse of the spiders, which were indeed almost as tall as Dori and skittering around on their hairy legs. The bulbous bodies were black, and covered in some sort of exoskeleton plates that made stabbing them difficult. The Elves, armed with long-bladed knives and swords, went for their eyes and legs, shouting a warning about the venom-coated mandibles to the Dwarrow. Bilbo found that he had a gift for stabbing the foul creatures in the spots where their joints met, and gleefully set to bringing down spiders far bigger than himself. Bofur turned out to be the best, along with Nori, however, as their blunt weapons could crush the hard chitin plates easily. Bofur sent a stray thought to his nephews who had called his bongy-knocker a silly weapon, as he calmly smashed the skull of his fourth spider.

The spiders were beyond ugly, in Nori’s opinion, as he watched the Elves fight wildly. Their moves, graceful and swift like a falcon soaring through the air, seemed almost uncoordinated until you noticed how they interacted with each other, seamlessly incorporating the surrounding Dwarrow as they dispatched the creatures ruthlessly.

As he stabbed one of the spiders attacking Dwalin’s back, Thorin had to admit that his first assessment of his newest kinswoman was accurate. Her blades whirled, flashed, and bit, with a speed and grace he had never seen in Dwarrow, looking perfectly at home next to the taller Elven Prince. The spiders, attacking with a viciousness comparable to Wargs, even if their offensive moves focused mostly on trying to inject their adversaries with the venom that dripped from their massive mandibles, were almost a quick as the Elves, and the Dwarrow had to stay on their toes to keep themselves safe. Bombur’s Battle-Spoon proved surprisingly effective, crashing through the hard exoskeletons with apparent ease and breaking joints and limbs wherever it hit. Dínelloth’s arrows found their targets easily, though Legolas seemed to prefer using the long-handled knives, his bow remaining strapped to his back. Thalawen’s sword was similar to Orcrist, though Thorin considered it far less elegant than his own blade, but she was definitely skilled with her choice of weapon, standing as the steadfast protector of her group-mates. Tuilinthel, even more slender than any other elleth Thorin had seen, was absolutely deadly, throwing daggers with a speed and accuracy that evidenced long experience. Erfaron seemed to be the constant shadow of the red-haired Curulhénes, even though she was more than capable of holding her own against the Giant Spiders. When Thorin realised that the beasts were actually _speaking_ he missed his swing, leaving Dwalin to pull off a move that ought to have been impossible in Thorin’s mind, but the spider ended up dead at his feet, headless, with a glaring Dwalin staring at him over its shuddering corpse. His Kurdel did not have time to deliver the rebuff Thorin knew he deserved, because his move had left his own back unprotected, and only luck kept him from being stabbed by one of the spiders’ stingers. Thorin’s heart beat rapidly with excess adrenaline, pushing Dwalin out of the way even before he realised that the spider was attacking. He saw the stinger moving towards him, almost in slow-motion, but the beast dropped dead before he could swing Orcrist at it, one of Ilsamirë’s twin swords in its brain. The peredhel gave him an exhilarated grin, before she whirled away once more, fighting fiercely.

The skirmish ended soon after, though Erfaron claimed – as the Elves explained, based on a few hand signals – that they had been a hunting group, and their nest was not close. The news obviously did not please his Commander, but Legolas simply gave orders to burn the corpses and set up camp for the night.

 

The days continued to move ever onwards, and the princeling elf (as Thorin had come to think of him) often dragged _their_ elf off to Mahal knew where. They’d come back with pouches filled with berries, however, and Thorin had – begrudgingly – admitted that the fresh food was a welcome addition to the supplies they had received from Beorn and the lembas that Ilsamirë had made in his house. It didn’t mean he trusted the blond elf, but it did make him slightly less confrontational. On the day the bounty turned out to be blackberries, the dwarf even managed something that might be mistaken for a smile towards the elf.

 

 

###### notes:

[32] Young warrior  
[33] Pour your brother – Heather Alexander ©1994 Wanderlust  
[34] _To Drink! To Drink! To Drink!_  
_To eyes as bright as Mithril when they are shining!_  
_To Drink! To Drink! To Drink!_  
_Friends are better at speaking, when they're ordering!_  
[35] The Mummer’s Dance – Loreena McKennit  
[36] Ever is your presence a joy.  
[37] Leafling! Well met, my friend.  
[38] Longbeards, the clan of the Line of Durin.  
[39] Forgive me.  
[40] Follow us.  
[41] Wood of fire  
[42] Splinters of the wood of the greatest fire.


	6. Enter the Elvenking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving in the home of an ancient King brings new revelations and forces secrets to light.

After another fortnight’s journey, in which the general mood of the Company had dropped steadily, they finally arrived at the Elvenking’s Halls. Erfaron had been sent ahead, something none of the Dwarrow had realised until his silent presence was missing at the evening meal. Bilbo had tried to keep up his mood, but the trees – even in the company of the Elves – seemed to weigh down on his heart. The rest of the Company were affected too, but Bilbo felt physically ill, rather than simply confused like Bofur.

At the large carved door, they were greeted by the King’s steward, Galion, who sent them off to the guest wings for bathing and a light meal. The Dwarrow grumbled darkly as they followed a young Elf to their rooms. Not only had the proud princeling done his best to monopolize _their_ Elf on the journey here, now she had been separated from them and taken Mahal knew where. It didn’t sit well with any of them. Their moods lifted slightly when they saw the meal laid out for them; at least _these_ elves believed in eating meat!

 

* * *

 

 

Elsewhere, Ilsamirë was just entering her own rooms in the Royal Wing and breathed a sigh of relief. She might not have been in the Forest for more than a few decades herself, but she knew the trouble they had with the spiders that had first appeared almost 300 years before, which had only grown bolder in recent years. She had lost dear friends to the darkening of these once-proud trees and the creatures it spawned. They had made it  through the forest in good time, without injuries. None of her dwarrow had been overly antagonistic on the walk here, not even in the face of Legolas’s thinly veiled displeasure, and she hoped fervently that Thorin could keep them all under control and on their best behaviour, especially in front of Thranduil, who had little reason to be amenable to their cause. She thought she had managed to remove at least part of Thorin’s baseless hatred of elves, but he still felt a fair bit of animosity towards the Elvenking. Ilsamirë sank slowly into her bath, enjoying the feel of the warm water on her skin. Alone among the Elven Realms, Thranduil’s Halls boasted natural hot springs and mineral pools, which were especially welcome after the long trip. The enchanted river that ran through the land could not be used for drinking or bathing, so travellers were usually thankful for the opportunity to soak off the grime. After her bath, she dressed quickly in the Elvish dress she pulled from her wardrobe. The dark blue matched her eyes perfectly and the small moonstones sewn along the neckline made her hair shine even brighter. She pulled the long locks into a flowing style, with slightly different braids than her travelling look, but still elaborately framing her face. A mithril circlet crossed her forehead in a pattern of leaves and vines to finish off her appearance, and she set off quickly for the Guest Wing where Legolas had ordered the Company brought while he went to speak to the Captain of the Guard.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _You are back early, Legolas._ ” Bronwe said, when he looked up from his rosters to see the Prince in the doorway of his study. “ _Trouble_?”

“ _We found and torched two nests, south of the Old Forest Road, and a few hunting packs within our borders. No injuries._ ” Legolas replied. He commanded his own personal elite group, as well as a couple of other groups, which hunted closer to home, but Captain Bronwe was the over-all head of the Guard of the Woodland Realm, and Legolas had to report to him directly.

“ _So why are you back a full moon turning before you were meant to_?” Bronwe asked sternly.

“ _Hiril Rhonith has returned. We found her with a group of Anfangrim when we turned west. I decided it was better to lead them here than let them roam unescorted._ ” Legolas explained dutifully. He respected his superior, even if he outranked Bronwe in everyday life. The old elf – one of the few remaining in Arda who had been born in the First Age – was his Ada’s best friend, and Bronwe was one of the few who treated Legolas with little deference. The Captain – married to the Head Baker Maeassel – ran a tight ship in the Guard, and two units returning – one unit comprised of four Elves and each group was made up of two units – returning early would throw off the schedules for all the rest, leaving a gaping hole in their mobile defences.

“ _Very well. Find Alfirin and tell her to report here tomorrow. Her group will have to cover your quadrants_.” Bronwe sighed.

“ _I’m sorry, Captain. Erdhon and Erecthel deserved a longer time off duty. Do you want me to send Arastor and Tuilinthel in their stead?_ ” Legolas didn’t really want to, and the twins rarely deigned to take orders from anyone but himself, which would make putting them under Alfirin’s command troublesome, but Erfaron and Faindirn – his own unit’s trackers – would be an even worse choice. Erfaron – mute, and adopted as a child by Curulhénes’ family – considered protecting his gwador’s blood-sister his sacred duty. When Curulhénes had decided to join the guard, Erfaron had been the only reason her older brother did not demand her exclusion. Magoldir, Bronwe’s Second-in-Command – the same rank Legolas held in the Guard – had asked that the prince let his little sister be part of his own group, a set-up that had worked surprisingly well for more than two hundred years.

“ _Can the twins be spared? If we take you and Curulhénes off duty, Faindirn and Erfaron will want the same time off, to keep the unit intact. Dínelloth and Thalawen wouldn’t want their unit split up either, I’m guessing._ ” With another exasperated sigh, Bronwe looked at the board he used for creating the Guard rotas.

“ _The twins won’t care that they have to fight with another pair in a new unit for one rota, I think, and they’ll follow Alfirin if I command it. Dínelloth and Thalawen won’t mind, in fact they might see it as a sort of Golden Time of their own…_ ” Legolas mused “ _Thalawen told me that they are thinking of starting a family soon_.” He’d prefer to keep his current group intact, but Erdhon and Erecthel had only just gotten married four months earlier.

“ _No_ ,” Bronwe said, shaking his head and looking at his board. “ _I think we’re better off keeping you all here, and you can explain to Erdhon why their Golden Time is cut short. I’d recommend you bring a gift of apology, Legolas._” The younger commander nodded, frowning thoughtfully as ideas began whirling in his head. Rhonith had not told him _why_ she was leading the Company to Adar, but Legolas had a few guesses as to Thorin Oakenshield’s purpose. Feeling guilty for shirking his duties so blatantly, Legolas left Bronwe’s office and made his way to Alfirin’s home to make his report on the state of the quadrants they _had_ finished. He had asked Galion to give him as much time as possible between their mid-morning arrival and the Company’s audience with Ada, but when one of the Steward’s runners found him coming out of Alfirin’s door, Legolas only just had time to return to his own quarters for a quick wash before he was expected in the Throne Room.

 

* * *

 

 

The dwarrow of the Company were growing steadily angrier. Their meal had contained far too many greens, even if they had to admit that the Silvan Elves had at least provided well-seasoned meat to go with the vegetables. The only one who was genuinely pleased was Bilbo, and possibly Bifur, who seemed to prefer a green diet, but he was considered simply peculiar in that way and didn’t really count in the grand scheme of things. Most of them did not trust the elves and so they had only used the pitchers of warm water to wash perfunctorily, getting rid of the grime on their faces. Thorin was livid. The Elvenking should have met them straightaway instead of trapping them here, he felt, and growled as much to Balin, who was trying to keep his increasingly belligerent king from exploding in a fit of temper. Dori was trying his hardest to persuade Ori to try the vegetables that accompanied the roast venison while Nori smirked at the stubborn set of his younger brother’s jaw. They had not been locked in the rooms, Nori had checked, but the corridor was travelled often by tall lithe Elves twittering in their bird language. He once again regretted never having learnt anything other than curses in Sindarin; it could have been helpful to be able to gauge the mood of their hosts. He silently swore to remedy that oversight – provided he survived the end of their journey.

Eventually, a quiet knock on the door announced the return of _their_ elleth, wearing a beautiful gown and with her hair still slightly damp from washing. “I will take you to see Thranduil now,” she smiled at their disgruntled expressions. Balin had a quizzical frown on his face when he studied her braids. She was still sporting the braid and beads that marked her as Durin’s Line, but she was also wearing one proclaiming her a daughter of a sigil he did not recognise. He assumed it to be her father’s until he spotted the second such braid with a differently marked bead. After a round of greetings, Ilsamirë proceeded to lead the dwarrow to the throne room where an exquisitely robed Thranduil was sprawled on the throne. His son had taken position behind his father, but Ilsamirë strode to stand in front of the dais beside Thorin.

 

* * *

 

When the Company entered, following behind Rhonith – who clearly had had time for a proper bath – he wondered why the dwarrow looked so travel-worn still. Galion had given orders for washbasins to be brought to them, and they had had ample time to spend on making themselves more presentable. Ada’s frown at the sight was gone in the blink of an eye, but Legolas caught it nonetheless. He could see, by the way her face remained carefully blank that Rhonith had seen it too, though it confused him slightly when she stopped to the side of the platform, rather than joining them on the dais as was her right. Twisting his fingers in the guard-sign for _come here_ , he was surprised to see her shake her head and give him back a _quiet_ sign.

 

* * *

 

 

Thranduil gazed at the Company, his face showing no reaction to the presence of dwarrow in his Throne Room as his steward stepped forward.

“ _Aran vuin Thranduil. Caun vuin Legolas._ ” He bowed to each then turned to the gathered dwarrow. “I present to you the _Anfang_[43] Prince of Erebor, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thraín, son of Thrór, and his Company.”

The king rose fluidly from his throne and took a step down onto the dais. His silvery robe whispered across the stone. “ _You have brought Anfangrim to my lands, Rhonith?”_ The King’s voice was deadly quiet, and the Company clustered a little closer together as they watched their elleth nervously. None of them understood the words, but the King did not seem like he was pleased with their elleth. A few of them glared at Legolas, thinking the princeling should have stepped in to help his friend.

“ _I have, Atheg. I joined their group quite by accident, but I have found these Anfangrim to be honourable Dwarrow worthy of your time and consideration._ ” She replied in the same quiet Sindarin, holding her head high and continuing in Westron, “The quest undertaken by Thorin Oakenshield and his Company is a noble one. They wish to reclaim their homeland.”

“ _Sellig[44]. I will decide that for myself._ ” Thranduil stopped in front of Thorin, “Many years it has been since we have hosted your kin, Prince Thorin.” He inclined his head in greeting, and continued quietly, “ _Sellig_ seems to believe you, but I remain unconvinced your purpose is not simply one of common greed. Will you tell us… what is your errand here?” Neither Thorin nor Balin were fooled into thinking that it was anything but an observation of niceties and manners. Thranduil would either have been informed of their purpose or he would have guessed easily.

Thorin cast a glance at Ilsamirë, who shook her head discretely. She could do no more for him in this meeting; Thorin had to rely on his own skills of diplomacy. He did not know the word Thranduil had called her, but her presence had kept them from being imprisoned or worse, which was what he and Balin had been expecting, should they encounter the King of Mirkwood. He gave Thranduil a slight bow, enough to acknowledge the other as a fellow ruler, but also to mark him as an equal. The elves milling around the edges of the room twittered, but Thranduil’s expression was inscrutable.

“King Thranduil.” Thorin greeted, speaking loudly and with enough force to carry his voice easily throughout the room. In a way, this was no different than giving a speech in front of a crowd of his people. “I thank you for the gracious accommodations of your Halls. Our journey has been long and fraught with peril, but our greatest challenge yet lies before us. We seek the destruction of Smaug and the restoration of the kingdom of Erebor. We seek to go home.” Thorin and Balin had discussed how much or how little to tell the King, but Ilsamirë’s argument for honesty had eventually won through. After all, even if Thranduil could not help with the dragon, his people would be instrumental in feeding a restored Erebor and once the dwarrow of Ered Luin started arriving they would need safe passage through his forests too, something much more likely to be granted if they were on friendly terms with the Elf. “I wish to present to you my sister-sons and heirs, Crown Prince Fíli and Prince Kíli, sons of Dís, daughter of Thraín, son of Thrór.” He gestured grandly and the two young dwarrow stepped forward and bowed uncertainly. Their mother and Balin had given them lessons in courtly etiquette but they had never truly been part of foreign diplomacy. Thranduil returned their bow with a regal nod.

“Your heirs do you proud, Prince Thorin, and it is clear they inherited much of your grandmother’s famed beauty.” That comment resulted in several swiftly hushed whispers among the rest of the Company and a furious blush ran over Kíli’s face. Thorin smiled and straightened with pride. The Elvenking’s gaze moved from one dwarf to the next, studying them all intently. Bofur twisted his hat nervously and Glóin’s infamous temper lit a small ember in the merchant. Thranduil took a sudden step forward, a surprised expression fleetingly appearing on his face. “Little one. You are no dwarf. What do you call yourself?” Tilting his head, Thranduil focused on Bilbo, who fidgeted under the curious stare.

“A Hobbit, King Thranduil.” Bilbo’s voice was almost lost to his nerves, but he did not cower under the scrutiny of the Elvencourt. Dwalin stepped up close beside him, lending the hobbit a sense of security in the face of the elf’s age-old eyes.

“Long has it been since one of the children of Yavannah has graced our forest with a visit…” The king glanced back at Ilsamirë, who nodded with a smile.

“I have told you of the Shire, _Atheg **[45]**-nîn_ , and how our small friends settled there after the wandering years. Bilbo is a descendant of the three tribes.” A negligent motion of Thranduil’s hand summoned a page. The King whispered a low order and the elf scurried out of the room. Behind Thorin, Balin gasped. The Dwarven King could not turn around to see what had upset his old friend, but reminded himself to ask him as soon as they were away from the Throne Room.

The king’s eyes seemed to stare right through his soul, Bilbo felt. He cleared his throat nervously. “Well. We have no stories of our origin before the Wandering Years.” He fidgeted slightly with the buttons on his much-abused weskit, which was no longer the fine yellow-and-green silk it had been when he put it on back in Bag End on that fateful morning.

“But surely you are one of the _Yavannahchîn_[46].” Thranduil reached out to touch Bilbo’s curly hair, though he pulled back his pale hand before he reached Bilbo’s sandy curls, pressing a single finger against the Hobbit's forehead. His ring glittered brightly, reflecting the light of the wall-mounted lamps. Bilbo sighed, feeling a curious sense of relief suffuse him. “Your people lived in three tribes, when my Realm yet had the name Greenwood… The Anduín tribe, who were so fond of their boats and fishing, the forest tribe, who made their home in our lands and hunted with my kin and the open landers, who loved the growing of crops. I am very old, _perianig **[47]**_ , but I remember the little people with the hairy feet who so loved my forest. Be welcome among us once more, Young Bilbo. You shall have to tell me of your people and how they fare later.” The Elvenking’s softened gaze left the Hobbit and he turned back to the elleth, who was beaming at his reaction, and bowed, “ _Ant gîn vîr mi 'ûr nîn, Rhonith sellig. **[48]**_ ” Around the room, excited chatter broke out among the assembled elves, but Thranduil turned his attention back to Thorin, piercing him with his pale eyes. Bilbo let out a slight sigh of relief when the attention shifted away from him. “You wish to slay the dragon? How do you plan to accomplish such a feat?” Thranduil looked straight at Thorin as he spoke, watching his face intently. The Dwarf did not falter, his voice ringing out clear and strong against the stone columns of the Throne Room.

“We hope to obtain a Black Arrow from Laketown and use it to slay the dragon. Otherwise we would have to resort to swords, but it is my hope that the dragon can be shot from a distance and that our quest can be completed without rousing him from the mountain. The Dwarrow of Erebor remember dragon fire and we would wish it upon neither the Men of Laketown nor the Forest of Mirkwood.” Thranduil’s face twisted in hatred for a split second before he smoothed his features into careful blankness. Balin felt a ball of lead settle in his stomach at the sight.

“Prince Thorin. I will consider your words and your purpose tonight and will give you my answer in the morning. You and your Company may return to the guest chambers appointed to you. My steward will fetch you and your advisors for council after the morning meal.” With a wave of Thranduil’s hand, a servant stepped forth to lead the dwarrow back through the twisting corridors. Thorin nodded grandly and bid the Elven royals farewell.

“ _Rhonith_!” Thranduil spoke loudly and whirled to face Ilsamirë. The dwarrow stiffened, ready to defend her in case of an attack, but the elleth merely smiled, eyes twinkling at the older elf. “ _Ve_ _cheniar_?[49]”

She bowed, “ _Ú-bedir edhellen, Thranduil Aran_.”

The king, with his back to the dwarrow, gestured for her to exit the Throne Room and return to the Royal Dining Hall. “ _Tolo a nin! Legolas, aphado ven_.” The barked order was the last thing the dwarrow heard before the doors fell shut behind them and they once again had to follow an elf as she traipsed back to their rooms. Kíli glanced back worriedly, surreptitiously trying to linger, but the guard following the group saw it and looked at him kindly. He tried to explain, though his mastery of the Common Tongue was halting at best.

“Avo gosto…Do not…fear? Lady Rhonith beloved. All and king more,” he spoke in broken Westron but gave a reassuring smile to the young prince, “she will no harm for bringing you here.” The guard nodded solemnly at his own words. A passing elleth chuckled brightly. The guard frowned and pulled her hand to make her follow them. He switched back to his native Silvan, explaining what he had been trying to tell the Dwarrow. The elleth nodded, giving him a short answer before turning to the Dwarrow and speaking in perfect Westron.

“Maeglor wants to reassure you that Rhonith will not be harmed by the King. Our King loves her like a daughter and she will not be punished for bringing dwarrow to the Halls. Not even the heirs of Mad Thrór,” she smiled reassuringly at the young archer. Ahead of Kíli, Thorin scowled to hear his grandfather named so. Even if he privately agreed with the moniker, the casual insult still rankled.

Kíli turned to walk backwards and smiled brightly at the tall elleth. “What is that name? Rhonith. The king called her that too, but she told us her name was Ilsamirë.”

The guard cocked his head and looked at the young dwarf. The elleth explained calmly, “Ilsamirë is her _Quenyan_ name, bestowed by the _Noldor_. We are Silvan. _Rhonith_ is the name our queen gave her. An earned name – _epesse_[50]. It means Wild Sister. She has always been a wanderer and her spirit roams free in all Middle-Earth.”

Kíli wondered at that, “So the king thinks of her as a sister?”

The guard shook his head and the elleth replied slowly, “Thranduil King thinks the Beloved Lady Rhonith his daughter-by-heart. She has her own rooms here, if she does not spend the night with Prince Legolas. The Beloved Queen Nínimeth, who dwells beyond the Sea, named her gwathel and called her sister. We use the name to honour our Beloved Queen.”

Fíli nodded and Kíli continued, “The wanderer part makes sense I suppose, she told us she had traversed most of Middle Earth in her life. She has been a good friend to us on our journey here. It is hard for the Company to be separated… if she is not joining us, could you give her a message?”

The guard inclined his head and Kíli turned back to look at Thorin, who was listening to the last part of Kíli’s quiet conversation. After the show in the Throne Room he felt a need to be close to his nephews, still basking in the pride he had felt at their conduct.

“I would like to let the Lady Ilsamirë know that she is welcome in our rooms and that we wish to see her for breakfast tomorrow morning if it pleases her.” The King was inordinately pleased that his tongue still remembered the way to speak in courtly tones, something he had only rarely needed in their long exile. Even the nobles in their Blue Mountain settlement only expected him to be Royal with capital R on feast days and the like. The guard nodded once more and turned back at the door to the guest chambers.

They had barely made it inside the room when Balin – usually the most even-tempered Dwarf for miles – lost it.

“She is his _daughter!_ ” he roared, turning to Thorin. The rest of the Company simply stared, confused.

“Who is whose daughter, Balin?”

“The girl. Usakh is the daughter of Thranduil.” Most of the dwarrow frowned. Balin continued, temper abated for now, “I saw her beads. She wears two braids for first daughter, both with different beads. I didn’t recognise either sigil, but Thranduil’s ring, which looks to be Dwarven-made, had the same pattern.”

“He did call her sellig. It means daughter mine.” Bilbo interjected. Thorin sighed.

“The guard who took us here called her Thranduil’s daughter-by-heart.” Kíli added. Around them, the Company were nodding in varying degrees of uproar.

“She was adopted, I believe.” Thorin’s voice was calm, but went unheard by most. “ **ITIKKITI **[51]**!** ” he shouted. They obeyed. He glared once around the room. “Ilsamirë may be adopted by Thranduil, but it makes her no less Dwarf, no less Usakh.” He continued to glare until each of the Company had nodded. “I trust her, and so should all of you.”

“Have… have you Seen something, Thorin?” Balin’s voice was hesitant. Thorin nodded.

“I remember meeting her in my previous life. I called her Sharul. She entered Durin’s study in Khazad-dûm without any guard detecting her, but Durin greeted her happily. His approval is good enough for me to trust her now. Usakh is one of us, no matter how much we dislike the Elvenking. We do not know most of her story, but I assure you I will find out why she considers herself his daughter. Until then, you will all treat her with the respect she is due as both our kin and a foreign Princess. Understood?” The nods that answered him this time were much more enthusiastic and Thorin smiled. “We should all get some sleep. For tonight, we are safe.” Setting off for the room that had been assigned to him, he left the Company to find their own beds. The silent shadow of Dwalin followed him.

The Company slowly settled down for the night, separating into small family clusters and discussing what they had seen earlier. It had been clear to them all that Ilsamirë’s vehement defence of Thranduil was based in deep fondness, but most of them hadn’t realised earlier that the fondness was reciprocated fully by the stoic elf. Somehow this fact actually endeared the King to them, even though they still did not like the haughty and cold elf.

 

“I can’t blame her for not telling us, Thorin.” Dwalin remarked, closing the door behind them.

“Aye, I know. If I had been in her place, I would have kept my tongue too. She would have no way of knowing whether we would attack her in retaliation for Thranduil’s slights.” Thorin sighed. “I still need to talk to her though.” Dwalin nodded, slowly removing his axes and their harness before moving to his equipment. In the main room, they could hear the low voices of the dwarrow as they slowly got ready for the night. Someone knocked on the door. Balin stuck his head through the doorway when told to enter, unsurprised at the half-dressed state of both of them. The old dwarf smiled kindly at his King and younger brother.

“There’s an elf out here collecting laundry. She says our clothes will be clean and dry by morning if we wish it.”

“Very well, Balin.” The three dwarrow exchanged a look before Thorin stripped off his tunic and breeches easily. Dwalin followed suit and they both handed their clothes to Balin to take to the laundry maid before falling into the soft bed and grinning at each other.

 

* * *

 

 

Once back in the less formal surroundings of his private study, Thranduil fell heavily into his chair and immediately grasped his wine goblet, drinking quickly before waving for a refill from the maids carrying their dinner on trays. He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. The servants left with a quick bow for each royal. “ _Medol! Gwannas lû and. Trevaded and?_[52]” Thranduil smiled kindly at Rhonith, who bowed her head softly and let the King run a single finger across her ear in his customary greeting. “ _Tolo, govano ven, mado, a hogo e-mereth_.”

Rhonith smiled happily and took her usual place next to Legolas. “ _Atheg, le suilon._ _Idhron halph, mass adh ês._[53]”

The Prince laughed and the King smiled gently at her, “ _And food we shall have. Your Dwarrow will be fed in their chambers and I will meet with them tomorrow. I admit I had not expected to see you this year, but you are, as ever, a welcome surprise, Sellig **[54]**._ ” The meal was passed in pleasant conversation; news from Lothlórien and Mirkwood was shared freely, but the topic of the Dwarrow did not come up. Rhonith basked in the company of two of her favourite elves. Thranduil’s court was a lot less solemn than her Lothlórien home, and she had always enjoyed her stays here immensely. The venison was delicious and the Dorwinion wine heady. By the time dinner finished, she was feeling nicely mellow and content.

Legolas and Rhonith sat quietly, awaiting Thranduil’s command. “ _Sellig. Pinig. Athog trenaro ammen_[55]. _I am sure it will be a grand adventure. How do you always get yourself involved in the trials of dwarrow?_ ” Thranduil’s bemused voice caressed them quietly.

And so Rhonith spent the next few hours regaling the two royals with her story of meeting Bilbo under the Misty Mountains and leading him out, their run from Orcs and flight on Eagles. When she reached the part of the story that took place at Beorn’s, she included her conversation with Thorin and her promise of becoming his advisor. Legolas chuckled when she reached the story of their meeting in the forest, “At least this time we did not have to spend weeks chasing up prey for dwarrow.”

The king looked at the two younger elves fondly, “Indeed.

 I have to wonder why Thorin is here, however; why set out for the Dragon now?”

“I believe that – with confirmation of Thraín’s death from Mithrandir – Thorin has been starkly reminded of his own mortality. I was going to visit her this winter to see why there was no reply to my letter for her last birthday but Lothig died almost two years hence. I think the death of his Naneth combined with Mithrandir’s urgings and the state of their settlement in Ered Luin forced him to do something to ensure the survival of my kin. The Dragon is dangerous, yes, but so is a slow death brought on by the hard life they live there. Smaug has not been seen for sixty years, and though Thorin is not fool enough to believe it has died, he is clever enough to know that the odds of it waking soon and once more devastating the land around the Lonely Mountain are high. He is 195 years of age, which probably has something to do with the timing too; if he waited another thirty years he would be too old to call any but the most foolhardy to his cause. When they set off, their goal was simply to recapture the Arkenstone and use it to call the armies of the rest of the clans to the task of killing Smaug… when I told him what we know of Thrór’s final years as King, however, he began to believe it his duty to kill the dragon his grandfather brought to their doorstep.” She sighed, sipping her wine pensively. Thranduil nodded.

"I am not convinced that Thorin will succeed, Sellig, even if his heart is in it. Has he planned for what will happen if they fail and rouse Smaug from his lair? I will endeavour to give him counsel, but I am not optimistic. Too well, do I remember the wrath of dragons…” he trailed off, reminded of his brother’s gentle voice, so cruelly ripped from his life before his time. “The Men of Laketown barely have enough to feed themselves as it is, the Master there is a greedy and corrupt man, but if their town burned, they would lose everything, even their lives.”

“Would you grant them sanctuary? There is yet time to move the Men here, where they would be safe.” Rhonith wondered. “Smaug would not believe that Dwarrow would seek the aid of the Eldar, his vengeance would focus on the Lake."

“And what would we be paid for such aid, dear one? We do not have the food to get an entire settlement of Men through winter as well as ourselves, and my duty is to my people first, you know this.” Thranduil’s tone was firm as he stared into the flickering flames spreading their warmth through his study. The nights were beginning to cool and although much of his keep maintained a constant temperature because it was built underground, small fires were lit to heat the inhabited parts.

“I know. Nevertheless, they could bring food with them. And the treasury of Erebor is vast, I am sure you would be well paid. Thorin is not Thrór. I believe he will honour an agreement.”

The King observed her shrewdly and continued blithely, “So you say, but can we be sure that Thorin will not fall to the sickness that claimed his grandfather?”

“We can but hope. We were supposed to wait for Mithrandir before we entered the mountain, and I hope his magicks might help.”

“Mithrandir? And where is the grey wanderer now?”

“He left us before we entered your Realm. The White Council convened in Imladris and he decided to investigate the rumours of the Necromancer in Dol Guldur.”

Thranduil looked pensive. “A necromancer? That is ill news indeed. Very well, if Erebor will recompense the Woodland Realm, we will harbour the Men until the dragon is either dead or sleeping again. I trust you will convince your dwarf lord of the merits in this plan, but I still want him to conceive better strategies. I will also want the return of the White Gems of Lasgalen, for they are rightfully mine, and it is a small fee for my aid. Legolas, organise extra groups for hunting, and have a messenger sent to Lothlórien. The White Lady is close enough to render what aid she might spare.”

Ilsamirë nodded calmly, “I already told him that you would want them. Of course, they might be hard to find, but we can afford to be patient. After all, what is a year to those whose ages are measured in millennia?” Legolas quirked a smile and even Thranduil’s lips twitched.

The Prince left soon after, desiring an actual bath. On his way out of the door, Legolas stopped and looked back at them.

“Will you comb with my group tonight, Rhonith? You did not join us on our journey here.” He asked, her earlier rebuff still on his mind. She sighed and gave him a soft smile.

“With pleasure. I have not combed with anyone since I left home. It is not something Dwarrow do, and I am still trying to earn their trust,” she chuckled ruefully, “I am afraid they think me far too Elvish already. At times it is a struggle to fit in with my mother’s kin. In my heart I am an Elf, but the Dwarven culture holds so many memories too. I think, when this venture is over, I will spend a few decades living as a dwarf again. If Thorin is successful, I will stay in Erebor until he no longer needs me.” Another chuckle escaped as the two Elves burst into laughter at the idea of her wandering feet resting for that long at a time. It had happened, but rarely, and Rhonith sent them a mock-scowl for their mirth.

“I will return for you after my bath, then, hiril vuin,” Legolas smiled.

 

Later, as the pair meandered through the winding halls, they were unaware of the casual observers loitering in the long corridors. The Silvans were fiercely protective of their young Prince, but the general consensus stated that Rhonith was one of the few non-Woodland Elves in whose company the Prince might be found without someone informing his father. The pair made their way to the patrol group’s rooms in quiet conversation. Once there, they joined the other seven elves who formed Legolas’s patrol and the night was spent combing each other, singing and stroking ears, easing into reverie together. If their Prince’s fingers perhaps strayed towards mithril locks more than they should, no one had to know. The Silvans simply smiled smugly when his back turned and looked on in indulgence.

 

* * *

 

 

[43] Longbeard

[44] Daughter mine

[45] Little father of mine – here used as a term for adoptive father.

[46] Children of Yavannah.

[47] Little hobbit.

[48] I will treasure your gift in my heart, Rhonith my daughter.

[49] Do they understand us? – They do not speak Elvish, King Thranduil. – Come with me! Legolas, follow us.

[50] Epesse are names given by others, usually close friends or siblings, but not chosen by the elf or given by the parents.

[51] Silence! – continuing order. Itkiti is the word for Silence! When you’re trying to silence a room of people just now, but the energetic form means you want them to be silent until you say otherwise/finish talking.

[52] Finally! It has been too long. Hard journey? Come, join us, eat and drink at the feast.

[53] Hello, Dad. I am hungry and thirsty(I want soup, bread and meat) *Little father of mine – here used as a term for adoptive father

[54] My little daughter

[55] Daughter. Little One. Would you tell us the tale?


	7. Council and Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made and celebrations held; Thorin learns something new, and some Elves are surprised.

In the morning, the guardsman Maeglor knocked on the door to Ilsamirë’s rooms, only to be informed by a passing servant that the Lady was with the Prince and ought not to be disturbed. The guard decided that his message was not urgent enough to warrant an interruption and left quickly.

Ilsamirë woke up happy, tangled in the long limbs of the elves around her. Her eyes lit upon the restful faces and she realised that she had drifted off in the lap of the Prince. The Silvan elleth beside her, wrapped in the arms of her _hervenn_ was smiling mischievously.

“Well met on this morning, Lady Rhonith.” The elleth, Thalawen, winked. Ilsamirë shifted to get up, but Legolas’s fingers caught in her loose hair and she winced. Thalawen giggled. Ilsamirë groaned softly, trying to extract herself, but failing abysmally. Legolas stumbled out of his own reverie to find his hands wrapped in mithril silk and caressed by soft fingers. He blushed fiercely, Thalawen tried to hide her smile as he stuttered out apologies. Apparently the Prince’s attraction to the Noldorin elf had only grown in her absence.

“ _Man lû_?[56] _I should find the dwarrow before the council._ ” Ilsamirë huffed and gently guided Legolas’s hands out of her hair, hoping that the warmth she could feel wasn’t showing in her cheeks. She got to her feet, reaching down to pull the Prince to his feet and out the door with a wave to the slowly waking elves in the room. They reached the common dining hall quickly, neither realising that their hands were still entwined. Thranduil smothered a smirk when he noticed, but only Nori saw that. The Company were busy demolishing the breakfast dishes but still managed to acknowledge the entrance of ‘their’ elf.

“Lass! There you are, we were starting to worry you’d got lost! Come eat! Bring the princeling too.” Bofur greeted jovially, and the two elves finally let go of each other. Ilsamirë sat next to Thorin, but Legolas joined his father.

“ _Mê g’ovannen, ionneg._ Is she yours?” The king spoke quietly, but he knew his son had heard by the colouring of his ears. Legolas fled. The king smothered a chuckle and watched  after his youngest child with a fond smile. Perhaps it was time for him to intervene in the matter. He had some idea of the thoughts that occupied his son’s mind and it was about time the prince did something about his feelings towards Rhonith. His eyes roamed the large cavern until they found the unmistakable mithril locks. He thought briefly of how Nínimeth would have laughed if she could see her ‘Little Leaf’ like this. Thranduil felt another pang of longing at the thought of her sweet laughter. The King rose and strode rapidly from the hall, sparing a covert glance towards his daughter and the boisterous Dwarven Company.

“Hey, Ilsa! Your blondie left. What’s with him?” Glóin exclaimed rather loudly, “He ran out of here as if he had Orcs on his tail.” The burly dwarrow laughed boisterously. Ilsamirë shared a long-suffering look with Balin. This was not a good display of manners in foreign court. Not for the first time, she chuckled at the differences between her two races. Elves could be just as jovial as dwarrow, but usually only in smaller groups or families, and they’d never be as raucous as her dear dwarrow cousins. Balin tried in vain to calm down his cousin. Ilsamirë hid her smile by turning her attention to her own plate. Maeassel had performed her usual pastry magic and the soft buns stuffed with honey and currants were delicious.

“I’m certain Legolas is alright, Glóin. He probably had duties to attend to before the council meeting.”

“If you say so, lassie.”

Eventually, the meal was over and Ilsamirë led Thorin and Balin towards the council room. Dwalin had followed the young princes to the elves’ sparring rings, led by Kíli’s newfound friendly guard, who was feeling slightly guilty at not having delivered his message. Ori had been dragged off by Dori and Nori was just walking around exploring the Palace. The ‘Urs and Glóin had retired for another nap in their rooms and Óin had decided to find Thranduil’s healers for a rousing discussion of technique. He was welcomed tersely by Nestor, the eternally brusque healer. Nestor was always unfriendly and borderline rude until he had ascertained that whoever interrupted him was actually worth speaking to, after which he was graciousness and poise itself. The two spent the rest of the day together, expounding on the differences between their training and cultures. The discussion was lively and the two old healers were evenly matched in wit and enjoyed themselves immensely as they bickered away.

 

Thranduil had decided to host the meeting in his own study, away from any distractions. He was joined by his steward Galion and Legolas, who perched by the window. He turned swiftly when Rhonith entered, ears still glowing and stared out until he was certain he had mastered himself enough that his emotions would not show on his face. Thorin glanced at Balin, raised an eyebrow suggestively at the back of the Prince and sharing a smug little smirk with his old friend. Neither dwarf had noticed any deeper feelings between the two and instead thought the princeling nervous at their entrance.

“Good morning, King Thranduil.”

“Greetings, Prince Thorin, -” Thranduil began but was interrupted by Ilsamirë’s soft Sindarin, “ _He is King-in-exile, my Lord, even without the throne of Erebor, not a Prince. The title is linked to the ruler of the Longbeard people, not just a location. For the same reason, Lord Dáin of the Iron Hills cannot call himself King Dáin, even though that settlement is far larger than the one Thorin rules in Ered Luin. Dwarrow politics_ ,” she sighed, slightly exasperated, “ _but if we are all to use our titles, it should be the correct ones_.”

The Elf smirked and shot her a bemused glare. “ _Indeed my Lady. Shall we use yours as well? Then you would be Celebriel, Geira, Ilsamirë, Rhonith, Noble Lady of the Line of Durin, Lady of Khazad-dûm, Beloved Lady of Lothlórien and Greenwood, Master Jeweller of Erebor, Imladris and Gondor, as well as your title of Watcher of Aulë…did I forget any?_ ”

The glare she sent him would have made weaker souls flee in terror, but Thranduil simply chuckled. Rhonith’s scowl crumbled quickly and her laughter joined his.

“You forgot one, _Ada-nîn_[57]. She is also called _Pethril **[58]**_.” Legolas rebuked them softly in Westron.

Thorin and Balin stared at their kinswoman. A soft glow had appeared on Ilsamirë’s cheeks. Neither of them had any idea what was going on, Balin had learned some Sindarin in his youth but it was very rusty and he had no chance of keeping up with their rapid tongues. The Elvenking was trying very hard not to laugh in front of his guests. It wouldn’t do to appear so undignified in the presence of strangers. The tension broke at Legolas’s laughter, swiftly joined by the other elves. Rhonith sketched a mock bow at the king; in private, he was a lot more informal and approachable.

“Very well, dear Rhonith. Greetings _King_ Thorin. Of course you are familiar with my son Legolas and my daughter-by-heart Rhonith.”

The dwarf-king nodded and Balin bowed.

“What is your plan for the dragon, King Thorin? It has not been seen for 60 years, and the Men believe Smaug to be dead in the Mountain. I believe otherwise. Dragons hibernate for many years between meals, and although Smaug is overdue a feed, it is highly unlikely he has simply perished.”

“We wish to kill him; we do not believe him dead already.” Thorin’s eyes were hard, lost in memories of the dragon attack.

“And how will you kill him? It is very difficult to kill a dragon.” Thranduil spoke softly, but his tone held a core of steel. Thorin suddenly realised how this elf could have commanded armies. Looking at him today, he did not see just the superior, condescending smile or the haughty stares he remembered from meeting the Elvenking in Erebor as a young dwarf. Today he saw a true ruler.

“We realise that the task we have set ourselves will not be easy, Your Majesty, but it is my belief that the dragon was weakened during his attack on Dale, that, in fact, Lord Girion managed to wound the dragon, leaving an exploitable weakness.”

Thranduil steepled his fingers and cast a shrewd glance at the dwarf. “So his descendants have claimed, yes. This is, however, merely supposition at this point. If there is a weakening in the dragon’s armour, how will you exploit it? If his hide is intact, do you know how to kill a dragon in close quarters? How will you get close enough to kill him without waking the beast and rousing it from its lair?” Thranduil speared Thorin with steely eyes and continued softly, deadly, “And if you DO release Smaug from the mountain, how will you ensure that his wrath does not fall upon those innocent of angering him?” he sat back in his chair, letting the quiet stretch as Thorin collected his thoughts. Balin put a hand on his king’s shoulder.

“If there is a weakness, we can either shoot him with a Black Arrow, which would be strong enough to pierce his skin, or we can stab him with my sword. We know of a way into the mountain aside from the front Gate, a secret passed down the Royal Line of Durin. It is our hope that we can contain Smaug in Erebor, but if he is freed, I would have the Men of Laketown as far from their flammable dwelling as possible.”

“So your plan hinges on the existence of these Black Arrows. Do any still exist or is that merely a best case scenario?” Thranduil’s face gave nothing away.

“We don’t know. I had hoped to speak to Girion’s descendant, for the Arrows were given into his keeping and may have been passed down through his son. Otherwise, we could search Dale, but that seems unlikely to be fruitful.”

“And Esgaroth?”

Thorin sighed, “I had hopes that we might persuade you to house them while we enter the mountain, for a suitable offer of repayment once the mountain is ours, of course.”

“Yes, Rhonith came to me with that request as well, and we have started to prepare our Halls for guests. I will expect due payment for services rendered, but the task of persuading the lakemen of your plan is your own. I will welcome them here, but only if they come of their own volition. I have sent messengers to Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond in hopes that they might be able to send aid in case we are to house the people of Esgaroth for the whole winter. My people are fierce hunters, but there is very little time before snow will make the hunting unsuitable to feed so many. Esgaroth is much smaller than Dale once was, but they still number a fair amount of hungry mouths.”

Balin kicked his king’s ankle and Thorin managed to stutter out his polite reply, “I will accept your proposal with utmost gratitude. I would not wish destruction on anyone due to my own actions if I could spare them. My Company will set off for Laketown at once and begin evacuation. We will ensure that they bring as much food as they are able, so as not to tax your stores overmuch.” Thorin bowed graciously and Thranduil nodded.

“That is settled. Now for killing the dragon. Will you show me this sword you believe can pierce dragon hide?” Thranduil gestured to the table in front of him, upon which a servant had just placed a jug of wine and a tray of goblets. Rhonith poured a gobletful for the Elvenking and herself as well as Legolas, then a half measure for each dwarf. Thorin glared at this obvious slight, but Rhonith smiled softly and winked.

“This is Dorwinion wine, Thorin. It is very strong for those unused to it. More like **shâlak akyâlul** [59]than the wine you are familiar with.” She raised her goblet; breathing in the heady aroma before letting a taste wet her lips. “It has been far too long since I last tasted this drink. _Ci athe_[60] _, Atheg-nîn_. I should not go so long between visits.” A sigh of pleasure escaped her and she toasted Thranduil, who raised his own goblet and mirrored her actions with a slight smirk.

Thorin drew Orcrist and placed it reluctantly on the long table before he picked up his goblet, handing the last to Balin. Each dwarf took a cautious sip and were suddenly glad of their elf’s foresight. The drink truly was more like a strong liquor than wine as they knew it. Thranduil leaned forward, inspecting the blade.

“How did you come across such a blade?”

“In a troll-hoard, beyond Rivendell. Lord Elrond told us the name and that it was made in Gondolin.”

“Indeed. The Gondolindrim were great craftsmen and a sword such as this would have been used by one of their lords, if not Turgon himself. You did not meet Glorfindel? He could have told you whose blade this was. I would have hazarded a guess at Ecthelion, Warden of the Great Gate.” At this Ilsamirë laughed.

“Then it is doubly suited for Thorin.”

Thranduil gave a crooked smirk, “Ah yes. Indeed. Most amusing, in fact.”

“What do you mean, King Thranduil,” asked Balin, confused by their obvious mirth.

“You know, Master Dwarf, one of the titles of the King of Erebor is Lord of the Silver Fountains. Well, Ecthelion was a Lord of Gondolin, specifically the Lord of the House of Fountains. Their crest was silver, with a fountain of diamonds and when they marched to war they played their silver flutes. Ecthelion’s voice in command was so great that his name has become a warcry for the Eldar. He died in the King’s Fountain, battling the Balrog lord Gothmog. He is one of the greatest heroes of the First Age, a great lord of the Noldor.” The king ran a fingertip slowly down the finely wrought blade.

Both dwarrow now looked at the sword with newfound respect, but the meeting came to a natural end shortly after. The dwarrow had been invited to stay for two weeks and would leave on August 31st. Thus the Company would reach Laketown by September 6th and would have over a month to get to the Mountain and find the door before Durin’s Day.

Ilsamirë stayed behind, sipping her wine and talking softly in Sindarin, while Thorin and Balin were escorted to the practice rings where they joined Fíli and Kíli. Kíli was testing his skill against some of the Elven archers and Fíli was sparring with Nori, knives flying fast and deadly. When he saw them, Dwalin dragged his king into the ring for a round of unarmed combat and Balin wandered off in search of Glóin.

The next fortnight passed quietly. The Silvans gradually lost their stern distance and a few younger elves even befriended the Dwarven princes.

Days were spent with preparations and friendly competitions and Balin spent more than one moment praising Mahal for sending them Ilsamirë. He had been certain that their best chance was to avoid the Elvenking entirely for fear of capture and delay. Instead, the presence of the half-elven Lady had granted them positions of honoured guests and a place to regroup before the trip to the mountain.

Thorin was faced with slight apprehension, however, as he had been speaking to the elven merchants who traded with Laketown and they had not painted a flattering picture of its Master. To the dwarf, it was peculiar that he should dread journeying to the place he had assumed at the start of the Quest he would be welcomed, yet feel almost home in the realm of his once greatest adversary.

 

 

That evening, the Company were led to a new hall, with tall pillars of carved stone supporting the arched roof. In the centre of the large room, a low, stone-lined pit had been filled with logs; a lively bonfire greeted them, chasing the slight chill from the air and leaving the Company soon removing layers of clothing. Bombur, whose Heart-Craft was that of an architect, immediately went to explore the fine detail of the stonework.

“This is not the work of Elves.” He mumbled. Around the Company, many Elves milled, carrying goblets of wine or small snacks.

Bilbo stared. There were more Elves here than they had seen in Rivendell, dressed in leather or flowing robes and dresses. A few were bringing in instruments, some he recognised; harps, fiddles and lyres, and a few he did not.

Beside him, Kíli’s eyes were roaming across the large room, but Bilbo kindly forbore making the joke he knew Glóin would have offered; asking Kíli how many of the robe wearing Elves were women. Instead, he asked the younger Prince to help him find refreshments, steering him way from the red-haired merchant. To Bilbo, both Fíli, Kíli, and Ori seemed quite young, even if he had been shocked to learn that Kíli – the youngest – was almost 30 years his senior, and he felt somewhat protective of them, particularly Kíli. Ori was considered fairly young, though an adult already, at 100. In fact, Kíli had explained, Ori was probably old enough to begin courting and thinking about making a family if he wanted. That had surprised Bilbo a little; with the way Dori treated his younger brother, he would have assumed Ori to be much younger, perhaps only barely adult. On the other hand, Dori had to counteract whatever influence a brother like Nori exerted, he admitted, which was probably enough to give anyone conniptions.

“True, Master Dwarf. This Hall, the Hall of Fire, was made by your kin.” Thranduil interrupted Bombur’s musings as he rose from a low, throne-like chair and spread his arms wide. “ _Na_ _Tham-en-Naur_ _nathlo i nathail!_ ”

Behind him stood Legolas, dressed in silver finery and Rhonith in another beautiful silk gown. The green of her dress and the mithril colour of her hair combined to give her the look of a white flower. Privately, Legolas compared her to a simbelmynë. She smiled a kind greeting towards the Company, to which Thorin returned a nod of his head.

“Tonight, it is time for stories and songs as we honour our beloved Lothig who has passed from this life to the next. Join us, my guests, and be merry.” Thranduil nodded, as if to convey his acceptance of their presence and sank back down onto the throne. A maiden served a platter of treats and a pitcher of wine to the King and his family.

A small signal from Rhonith had Thorin, followed by Dwalin and Balin joining the King on his raised dais, accepting the offered refreshments.

Eventually, once most of the people in the room had found a seat, one ellon stood, carrying a lute to stand by the great bonfire. Facing his king, the minstrel took up his lute and launched into the old song of Ëarendil the Mariner.

After him came a young elleth with a harp that had Thorin sit up and take notice. His fingers itched to touch the beautiful instrument and coax soft notes from the strings. Not many knew that he was a skilled harpist, and he had had to leave his own in Ered Luin, so he had not played since leaving home. Unlike flutes, which could easily be stuffed in a travel pack and carried, even his smallest lap harp would have perished easily.

Legolas studied the dwarf shrewdly. At first, he thought Thorin’s attention occupied by the elleth, who was quite lovely, even if he had not thought Dwarrow capable of appreciating the beauty of the Eldar, but then he realised that the covetous look in the dwarf’s eyes was directed at the instrument and felt slightly awkward at the thought. Even to him, who had grown up in a land neighbouring a mountain, dwarrow playing music seemed incongruous. Rhonith did not count, being mostly an Elf, after all, he thought.

“Do you play, King Thorin?” Legolas surprised himself by asking, and both kings turned to look at him. He did not look to see what expression fleetingly found its home on his Ada’s face, though he caught the flash of approval from Rhonith in the corner of his eye. Thorin’s face, directly in front of Legolas’ eyes, looked quite wistful. He nodded.

“Thorin was one of the best harpists in Erebor.” Dwalin rumbled, always happy to brag about his beloved’s skills. Balin nodded his agreement solemnly. “Most of us play one instrument or another.”

“Oh, but then you must play us something, King Thorin. Long has it been since my people have heard a story from a dwarf. Give us something representative of your people.”

Thranduil spoke, and, for once, Thorin could not claim that his words held any malice or derision, simply the anticipatory joy of hearing a good story, something he recognised from his nephews growing up. That thought made him feel oddly compelled to awe the Woodland Elves. He smirked slightly when Dwalin’s hand around his wrist added his Kurdel’s plea to that of the Elvenking.

“If I might borrow a harp, perhaps?” he asked, almost expecting an instant rebuff. Thranduil smiled, however, while behind him, Rhonith beamed at Thorin. The Elvenking rose, waving at the elleth who had finished her song. She approached the dais nervously, but was reassured by the smiles on those present that she had not shamed her lord in front of his guests.

“ _Cellingwen_.” Thranduil greeted. A flush of pleasure that her King knew her name ran across the elleth’s face. “ _As always, you give us great pleasure with your harp_.” She curtsied politely at the praise. Thranduil continued softly, “ _Our guest King Thorin wishes to play us a song of his people. Might he borrow your harp for a while?_ ”

The elleth gaped at the dwarf, who scowled at the perceived insult. She took a step back, answering nervously in Sindarin, “ _Thranduil Aran. It would be my pleasure to offer my harp to your honoured guest._ ” Overcoming her trepidation, the elleth held out her hand to the Dwarf-King, biting her lip nervously. Thorin looked unsure, he had not understood her words. Behind him, Rhonith nudged him with a whispered ‘go!’

Getting up, Thorin took the hand of Cellingwen and let her lead him to the harp by the fire. When he ran his fingers gently across the strings, a hush of anticipation ran through the Hall. He could see his Company nudging each other, his nephews’ excited faces watching him intently. Abruptly deciding exactly which song he would play, he took his place and brought his hands to the strings. Clearing his throat as he played the first few notes, Thorin began to sing. It was Westron, but he did not care if many of his audience did not understand the tale, he just revelled in the creation of music.

 _The world was young, the mountains green,_  
_No stain yet on the Moon was seen,_  
_No words were laid on stream or stone_  
_When Durin woke and walked alone._  
_He named the nameless hills and dells;_  
_He drank from yet untasted wells;_  
_He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,_  
_And saw a crown of stars appear,_  
_As gems upon a silver thread,_  
_Above the shadows of his head._

 _The world was fair, the mountains tall,_  
_In Elder Days before the fall_  
_Of mighty kings in Nargothrond_  
_And Gondolin, who now beyond_  
_The Western Seas have passed away:_  
_The world was fair in Durin's Day._  
_A king he was on carven throne_  
_In many-pillared halls of stone_  
_With golden roof and silver floor,_  
_And runes of power upon the door._

 _The light of sun and star and moon_  
_In shining lamps of crystal hewn_  
_Undimmed by cloud or shade of night_  
_There shone forever fair and bright._  
_There hammer on the anvil smote,_  
_There chisel clove, and graver wrote;_  
_There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;_  
_The delver mined, the mason built._  
_There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,_  
_And metal wrought like fishes' mail,_  
_Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,_  
_And shining spears were laid in hoard._

 _Unwearied then were Durin's folk;_  
_Beneath the mountains music woke:_  
_The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,_  
_And at the gates the trumpets rang._  
_A King there was on throne engraved;_  
_In great halls of colonnades;_  
_With roof of gold and argent floor,_  
_And mighty runes along the door._  
_The brightest light of moon and star,_  
_In crystal lamp shines through the dark;_  
_Unshadowed by the veil of night,_  
_They burned eternal shimmering white._

 _The skies are bleak, the hills are aged,_  
_The forge's flames have died away;_  
_No songs are sung, no blade is cast;_  
_In Durin's halls the evil lasts._  
_The world is grey, the mountains old,_  
_The forge's fire is ashen-cold;_  
_No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:_  
_The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;_  
_The darkness hangs over his tomb_  
_Beneath the mountain in the gloom_  
_The shadow lies upon his tomb_  
_In Moria, in Khazad-dûm._

 _But still the sunken stars appear_  
_In dark and windless Mirrormere;_  
_There lies his crown in water deep,_  
_Till Durin wakes again from sleep.[400]_

 

When the last note died, abject silence fell across the Hall. There was a susurration of noise and then the elves were applauding wildly. Cellingwen was smiling so happily at him that Thorin could not help but return it with a bow before he made his way back to the dais.

Thranduil nodded to him, pouring a goblet of wine and handing it over to his guest. The look on Dwalin’s face convinced the Dwarf-King that if they had had privacy, he would very soon be naked.

Around them, the elves chattered excitedly. Those who had understood the words were busy translating for those who did not and the Company were beaming proudly at him.

Thorin felt smug at the thought that he had played in an elven hall without shaming his kin.

“ **Sa’kishi izdun, irak-dashat. Amadzu zabiratahai** **argânul[61].** ” Rhonith whispered in his ear while Cellingwen removed her harp, giving the stage to a couple of fiddlers who played a competitive dance. A thought struck Thorin at her words.

“Are we intruding on your grief for this Lothig, Lady Ilsamirë?” Thorin thought he whispered, but it was Legolas who answered, because Ilsamirë was too busy giggling to reply.

“Did Rhonith forget to tell you the story of Lothig?” The Elvenprince’s amusement was as evident as his companion’s, though Thranduil did not seem to be paying attention to his guest, instead tapping his foot to the fiddlers’ tune.

“I’m sorry, Thorin, I thought I had explained,” the elleth chuckled, “Lothig is the name the Woodland Elves used for Frís. This celebration is in honour of her life, and the performances are some of her favourite songs and stories.” The three Dwarrow could do nothing but gape.

“For Amad?” Thorin eventually found his tongue. Somehow he managed to speak coherently past the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat.

“Of Course, King Thorin. Your Naneth was a Beloved Lady of my Realm. It is right that she be honoured with songs even if our voices may not reach her in the Halls of Waiting,” Thranduil said calmly, clapping for the two fiddlers. “I apologise that you were unaware, but her name has been Lothig to us for three centuries. As Sellig no doubt told you, she was Elvellon, Elf-Friend, and her death will grieve all those here who knew her, even if we have not seen her since the year of the dragon.”

Thorin did not know what to say to that - in his mind there was a vast difference between ‘I was friends with your Amad’ and ‘The entire Woodland Realm will grieve your Amad’s death’. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, slightly gratified that even silvertongued Balin had nothing to say, but when words finally leapt from his lips, they were not an expression of the sea of emotion that embroiled him, but a simple, “If you have more fiddles, I’m sure my nephews would love to compare their skills with your fiddlers,” that escaped his mouth. Thorin winced at his own ineptitude, but the two elves on the floor heard him and their eyes snapped from their King, whose expression conveyed his pleasure at their skill, to the two Dwarrow princes.

A liquid Sindarin phrase summoned two more fiddles, which were handed to the two young dwarrow by one of the fiddlers while the other played his challenge.

Fíli and Kíli looked to their uncle, and at Thorin’s nod, they rose, fluidly accepting the instruments and bringing them to their chins. With raised bow, Fíli tapped a beat on the floor and then the two brothers launched into a whirling piece of music, dancing around the two elven fiddlers. Their style was distinctly Dwarven, and Thorin was pleased to hear Rhonith’s sweet laugh in response. When the contest was over, at a fair draw, the two princes were encouraged to play another piece.

After that, Rhonith rose, making her way to Fíli and whispering in his ear. The Crown Prince nodded. The peredhel then made her way to Nori, bending low to speak in the ear of the dwarf seated on the floor. With a smirk, the thief jumped to his feet, pulling two daggers from their hidden sheaths.

Around him, elves gasped fearfully, but Rhonith just laughed and picked the blades from his hands. With a wink at the elf nearest to the Company, she took three steps back, raising the two blades high and crossing them. Her eyes did not leave Nori’s and when Fíli’s fiddle sounded behind her, she began to dance. The daggers winked in the firelight as they flashed down, while her feet, even in soft Elvish boots, tapped the beat. Moving fluidly across the floor away from the thief, her every move was still made in his direction. Even the Elves realised that this was as much the beginning of a challenge as the fiddler’s initial piece from before. Rhonith smirked, tossing her head and making her mithril beads catch the light playfully.

“She knows the **Usran Zegrârul**[62]?” Dwalin said, surprised. “We’re in for a treat. I saw Nori do it once with an Orocarni dam. It takes great skill.”

Thorin nodded. Neither dwarf noticed the tenseness of the shoulders of their Elven companions, whose hands had strayed to their weapons when Nori had pulled out the daggers.

On the floor, Nori had pulled another two wicked-looking blades from somewhere, and jumped into the dance. The four blades met in great clashes of sound as the dancers spun and whirled.

At intervals, determined by the music, weapons would swap hands, sailing through the air only to be caught by a hand that had not been there the previous second.

It was indeed a display of great skill, the Usran Zegrârul requiring agility, coordination and trust. Half the moves looked like blatant attacks against the opponent, while the other half seemed aimed at bringing the partner closer, but that was part of the dance, and a testament to the skill of the dancers was to make their moves as fluid as possible.

It was something only attempted by the most skilled of dwarrow, and rarely seen outside the Orocarni Mountains where it had originated.

As Fíli’s song increased in tempo, so did the hands and feet of Nori and Rhonith, until the two were a blur of motion that could hardly be followed by the naked eye.

At the final crescendo of sound, the two dancers came together in the middle, blades flashing high above their heads as each returned to the first position, crossing each of their daggers with one of the opponents. The two dancers breathed heavily, smiling as they stared at each other.

A full minute passed in stunned silence. The elves were staring, amazed by the display they had just witnessed and the Company were looking at them smugly. Elves did not have the monopoly on grace and agility.

Nori took a step back, re-sheathing his daggers with a flourish. Rhonith threw hers high into the air, but the Thief easily plucked them out on their way down and returned them to their homes around his body.

“My Lady. It was a pleasure.” Nori bowed deeply.

Rhonith returned the bow, smiling happily and turning back to the dais. Her smile faltered slightly when she caught sight of the angry fire in Thranduil’s eyes, but she walked back, head held high and sat down next to Dwalin. The burly guardsman clapped her on the back, congratulating her loudly for the finest display he had ever seen.

“Indeed, Lady Geira.” Thorin did not care to mask the smugness in his voice. He had noticed the princeling’s abject fear and considering they had told the elves it was a dance, he felt entitled to gloat a little. “I applaud you. Only masters of the blade will even attempt the **Isran Zegrârul**[63], but that was the best **Usran Zegrârul** I have ever seen. You are truly gifted, my lady. It seems our Nori has finally met his match.” He chuckled.

“I asked Master Nori for the **Isran** only. He asked me if I could do an **Usran** , for he had not danced with a true master for ten years. Truly, we shall have to dance again, for we are very well-matched in this.” She replied, laughing happily and ignoring Legolas’ scowl behind her. Balin added his own congratulations as another elf took the stage from Fíli’s replacement. “I must thank you, Thorin. With a fiddler less skilled than Fíli, we could not have done so well. Is it the first time he has played for a blade dance?”

“He was taught the melody as part of his training, but I don’t know if he ever played it for actual dancers,” the King shrugged. Pride filled him head to toe, and he would certainly praise his beloved nephew later. For now, he satisfied himself with a fond smile in the blond’s direction. Nori was clapping him on the back, praising him effusively as the elves watched, still reeling from the show. The thief sent a grin across the room, leaving Rhonith to beam at him.

Legolas’s scowl only increased in fierceness. Nori smirked, moving his fingers in quick Iglishmêk signs. The elleth flashed back a few twists of her fingers, making the thief shrug. Rhonith grinned. She did not turn around, but Thorin recognised her smug air as that of a woman who knows she is being desired. He hid a smile in his own beard, making a mental note to inform Glóin of the princeling’s interest in their elleth. The loud Firebeard ran most of the Company’s betting pools, and Thorin was sure he already had one going on Legolas and Ilsamirë.

 

The warmth of the fire and the cheer of the music, left the dwarrow feeling more content than any of them would have imagined they could be in the Realm of the Elvenking.

The only one who did not seem to enjoy himself was the proud princeling, who was scowling at the thought of how easily she had danced with the dratted dwarf. _Perfect match, ha!_ The smiles that kept flashing between the two throughout the night did not make his annoyance wane even a little.

 

After the fiddlers contest, there was a short break where a swarm of servants replenished the platters of treats.

Now that he knew why, Thorin realised that many things set out for the crowd to nibble were indeed his Amad’s favourites. He recognised pots that he had received himself, filled with jams and other preserves.

When he declined another goblet of the strong Dorwinion that Thranduil favoured, he was immediately offered a cup of spicy tea, just like the kind Frís had always favoured. The scent of it, as the steam hit his face, almost made him teary. For some reason, the tea only came out perfect when Frís brewed it, and they had given up trying to recreate it when they had wasted more than half the bag that Ilsamirë had sent.

When Thorin next looked up, Ilsamirë had taken the floor once more, and expectant silence soon fell.

“Tonight, we honour gwathel-nîn,” she said, speaking clearly and letting her voice reach every corner of the large Hall. “Therefore it seems only fitting that I tell her favourite story. In honour of our guests, I shall do so in Westron.” She bowed briefly in Thorin’s direction, before taking up her position once more. “When the Sun and Moon were yet young in the sky, Morgoth’s discord marred Arda’s beauty. When Thangorodrim was finally thrown down and Morgoth was banished to the Void, there was peace, and all races began to flourish once more, populating the lands of Arda quickly.

The Seven Fathers of the Dwarrow built their clans in their mountain homes, and their Maker was happy with their work, for they created great beauty from the bones of the land.

Yavannah, the Giver of Life, and Aulë’s precious Wife, however, was worried.

In their haste to prove themselves to their Maker and the All-Father who had allowed them life the Dwarrow forgot the lessons she had sung into their hearts while they slept, and Yavannah despaired to see the large swathes of destruction her husband’s Children made in her beloved forests.

At first, she tried to reach them once more, hoping that those she had adopted as her children by heart even if she had had little to do with their creation would listen to her.

Some Dwarrow did hear her pleas, but they were few and far between, and meanwhile, the trees kept being cut down for fuel for the forges. Aulë was little help, for he did not understand the work his wife put into every seed and the time it took for them to grow seemed to him insignificant, years being a fluid concept in the mind of a Vala.

In her plight, Yavannah beseeched the All-Father, Eru Illuvatar, for aid.  

The All-Father thought for many turnings of the sun, and Yavannah watched as the creatures she loved like a mother continued to cut down the creatures she had brought to life with her own hands. Her husband tried everything he could to cheer her up, but flowers made of precious stones and metal do not bloom with the sweet scents she adored, nor did his carvings of trees made of stone let the breeze flow through their branches and provide homes for the birds of the sky.

Finally, Eru Illuvatar returned, and he had a plan. Yavannah would be given her own creatures, creatures whose job it would be to safeguard the plants she held dear.

The All-Father bade the Life-Giver bring him seeds and nuts and acorns, and from the very plants they were meant to protect, he made walking and thinking creatures, large enough and strong enough to herd Yavannah’s precious trees.

These walking trees are known as Ents, and they set to their task with great determination. Where the Dwarrow had cut and burned, the Tree-Herders would plant anew, and tend to sprouts and saplings, for Yavannah knew that renewal was more her way than the strict maintenance her husband had attempted with his replacement gifts.

Many years passed.

The Ents and the Dwarrow lived peacefully, but the slow speed of their charges began to affect the Ents, who became more and more like the trees they herded.

Something happened then, that Yavanna had not foreseen. The Ents, who were made from nuts and acorns and looked much like moving trees, and the Ent-wives, who loved all Yavannah’s flowers and the smaller plants, had a falling out.

The Ents began to care only for trees, disdaining the small plants as being unworthy of the attention of Ents and Ent-wives alike.

In their fury at this slight, the Ent-wives beseeched their Mother. Yavannah despaired once more, for she loved all her creations equally.

Years passed, in which the Ents slowly stopped visiting the Gardens of their Wives, which meant there were no new Entlings born. The Ent-wives despaired and, furious, they called upon Yavannah once more.

With the Life-Giver came her husband, who came up with the solution. He would take the Ent-wives and their remaining children, and fashion them into different bodies, both male and female, so they could continue their important work.

Aulë brought the Ent-wives to his Great Workshop, and there, he remade them.

As her husband worked, Yavannah sang, instilling her purpose in the new creations.

The Ent-wives and their children burned, and as they burned they were reshaped, and shrunk, for Aulë wanted to make them true brothers and sisters of his Children. The leaves and flowers that had been their hair disappeared, and their bark was replaced by soft skin, but their love of green and growing things remained.

When Aulë’s work was done, Yavannah woke her Children, and sent them into the world.

They did not remember their previous lives, except for one detail that set them apart from the rest of Eru’s Children. Their feet, which had once been covered in grass, were now covered with fur, and the soles of their feet far thicker and stronger than the rest of the races of Arda, to let them wander far and spread the love of growing things everywhere they went.

When the Eldar first met the new creatures, they called them _Perian_ – the half-men, but this is not their true name.

In their hearts, this people call themselves the Hobbits, for they are not half of a man, they are exactly as their Mother and adopted Father made them to be.”

She smiled at Bilbo, who was surrounded by a silently gaping Company. None of them had ever heard this story before, and quite a few of them looked at their Burglar in a new light with the revelation.

“The Hobbits began life between the Misty Mountains and the Great Forest, and there they were happy for many years, growing Yavannah’s gifts and caring for the land.

From their Dwarrow kin, they learned the art of crafting tools, though they preferred to let Aulë’s Children create their metal-wares in exchange for food, a system that worked well for many years, until the shadow of Sauron the Deceiver began to darken their peaceful lands.

When the darkness took hold in the North and the Dwarrow retreated to the southern end of the Misty Mountain, the Hobbits went West, looking for a new land where their peace would last.

As they walked, they sang, and such was their grief for their beautiful home that Yavannah heard them in her dreams, and, crying for her Children’s struggles, she sent them further West than they thought they could ever walk, wandering for many years until they reached a new land.

This was a land of hills, which reminded them of their old mountains, though they held no precious stones nor could they be mined for metal.

Instead, they were covered with green grass, and the Hobbits rejoiced, for the very earth was welcoming here.

The King, who held ownership of the land, gave it over to their keeping, and when his Kingdom fell, the Hobbits remained.

In the Shire, they have prospered, guarded still by the last few of the King’s men, who protect the lands from the dangers of the Wilds, and their peaceful lives continue, sprawled over the Four Farthings that make up their home, no longer wandering and lost, but finally home.”

With a final bow, Rhonith finished her tale, smiling at Bilbo and returning to her seat. Bilbo was still staring mutely at her. Thranduil smiled kindly at him.

“Thank you, Sellig,” Thranduil said, lifting his wine goblet and toasting her when she bowed. “Always a pleasure to hear one of your tales,” he smiled, and Thorin would have sworn he saw mischief dancing in the Elvenking’s eyes, if it hadn’t been such a preposterous idea. “And one so many have not heard before, I wager.”

Thranduil was definitely laughing at them, Thorin swore, but he could not figure out how he knew that, the Elf looking as blankly stoic as a statue.

Thranduil stood, once more facing the fire, which was still burning, though it had died down almost to nothing but embers and a few flickering flames. He raised his goblet.

“This night, we farewell our friend, Frís Elvellon, named Lothig. May she never be forgotten by the hearts of those who knew her!” with that, Thranduil drained his goblet, the Elves in the crowd following his example.

Dwalin elbowed Thorin, making him turn his mind from contemplating the puzzle of Thranduil’s mood to his own full cup. His tea was gone, replaced with another goblet of Dorwinion and Thorin drained it slowly, savouring the burn and thinking about his Amad, trying to see her in this Hall, listening to stories as a young dam. The image made him smile; Frís had always loved a good tale, and something told him that love had been born here.  

 

* * *

 

###### notes:

[56] What time?

[57] Dad(technically my father, informally). Nîn denotes mine or my, whereas nin means me.

[58] Storyteller/narrator

[59] Water of life aka whisky ;)

[60] Thank you.

[400] Song of Durin, a mix between Tolkien lyrics as seen in the Fellowship of the Ring book, and the song by Eurielle.

[61] You surprised them, nephew. Your mother will smile proudly.

[62] Greatest dance of Supreme Blades

[63] Lesser dance of Supreme Blades


	8. Counsels and Farewells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The horrors of the past haunt the present, a demand is made, and a heavy heart is consoled.

The day before the dwarrow were to depart, Thranduil sat in his study, staring pensively at Rhonith. After a long while, he spoke, “ _I wish for you to remain with us when the dwarrow leave. You may help prepare for the refugees from Laketown_.”

“ _But I should stay with the Company. I would be of more use there. At least until they reach the mountain_.” Ilsamirë looked torn. She knew what Thranduil was really saying, but did not wish to hear the words. The king continued, undaunted by her evasive mien.

“ _You cannot face the dragon, my dearest one. You know this. Davo annin le meriad_[64].” Thranduil covered her hand with his own and squeezed gently. “ _There is no shame in your fear, but you must remember… You barely made it back here before you collapsed. Stay. Athog? Ammen.[65] I could not bear to see you thus again._ ”

Rhonith slumped in her seat, nodding, her face pale. “ _Ben iest gîn_[66].” Thranduil was rewarded with a pale smile as she rose, leaving her empty goblet on the table. The door shut quietly behind her.

“ _That was cruel,_ _Adar-nîn[67]_.” Legolas’s eyes were trained on the door where Rhonith had disappeared. Thranduil sighed, running his fingertip across Legolas’ ear before pouring himself another goblet of wine.

“ _I know, ion-nîn. But I would have her safe. Your Naneth[68] named her sister and when I named her my daughter, I swore to give her whatever protection I could. Sometimes being cruel is the only way to keep our loved ones safe, Legolas._ ”

The younger elf looked briefly chastised before he got up to follow his friend.

“ _I will attempt to keep her from dwelling on your words_.”

Thranduil smiled and waved him off. “ _You are a good friend, Legolas. Find her swiftly. You should try the practise rings; she might seek comfort with her Dwarven kin_.” When the door closed, the Elvenking turned to the window, gazing wistfully west and thinking of his beloved Nínimeth. It had been more than 2000 years since he had last held her in his arms and they yet ached with the loss. _A, meleth-nîn, aníron angin pent. Ci sael. Lasta angin.[69]_

* * *

Ilsamirë paced her quarters. In her heart, she knew Thranduil had been correct, but the way he had pointed out her shortcomings still rankled. He did it out of love for her, she knew, but it did not mitigate the ache in her heart. She turned and paced the other way, trying to dispel the memories the Elvenking had stirred. In her mind, a voice was whispering, words of defeat and capture, of pain and sorrow, of hurt and helplessness. Lost in dark thoughts, she finally escaped the underground portion of the Halls, barely acknowledging the Door Warden as she fled to the river. The water was chilly on her bare feet, but the shock of it helped clear her mind. She spent another hour by the riverside, pensively throwing tiny twigs in the water to see them wash downstream with the rapid currents.

Meanwhile, Legolas was searching the Halls. At first, he headed to the sparring rings, but he only found dwarrow there. Kíli tried to get him roped into an archery contest, but the distracted prince barely noticed, only staying long enough to ascertain that Ilsamirë had not been there all day. He turned sharply and fled towards the kitchens, thinking she might have gone to beg some sweets from Maeassel the baker. The Dwarrow stared at his retreating form, slight worry kindled in their hearts. If their companion was missing, _they_ would be the ones to find her, not some poncy elf prince. With the mutual decision and some rapid Iglishmêk signing, the group split up and spread quickly through the Halls, looking for their missing elf.

 

Thorin managed to get back to Thranduil’s study, thanking the maker that these wood-elves had decided to build mainly underground where he would not be a victim of his poor sense of direction. He knocked and entered at Thranduil’s call. The King was staring through one of the few windows in the Halls, his study being on one of the higher levels. Outside, a calm breeze was rustling the trees, throwing sun-dappled shadows on the forest floor. Thorin could hear the sweet notes of a bird’s song coming in from the outside. The Elf was so still he appeared carved from marble, an unsettling view, in Thorin’s mind. 

“Yes?” Thranduil said, when it appeared the Dwarf had lost the momentum his angry knocking presaged when he actually entered the study. He turned, gazing mildly at the Dwarf-King who dared to disturb the time of day Thranduil usually reserved for private contemplation. After fourteen days of observation, Thranduil was prepared to admit that his daughter-by-heart had been right in claiming that he would like Thorin. He still rather thought he preferred her newly claimed siblings, however, especially Nori, who reminded him more than a little of Glaerdor, sneaky and underhanded when it suited him, but fiercely loyal to his core. 

“Ilsamirë is missing!” Thorin cleared his throat awkwardly and clarified, “Well, we think she is. Your son seemed mightily worried when she was not with us and left in a hurry.”

A grimace passed so swiftly over the elf’s face that if Thorin had not been staring accusingly at the elf, he might have thought he’d been mistaken, but it had been quite clear. Regret and guilt.

“She will have sought escape. I brought up… unpleasant memories for her. I wish for her to stay here when you go to the mountain, but I was,” he hesitated, “unkind in my request.”

The dwarf-king’s anger spiked, spurred on by his worry and fear, “What do you mean! What did you do?”

Thranduil sighed, “How much do you truly know about Rhonith? Her personal history, I mean.”

“Just that she is our kin and was born in Khazad-dûm in the Second Age. Daughter of Narví and Celebrimbor. Watches over our race and tries to help in times of great need.” Thorin said, wondering what Thranduil was getting at.

“Yes, but there is much she has left out, I fear. When she was young, before Celebrimbor was taken by Sauron, she was very close friends with my Queen, Nínimeth, whose mother was the sworn-sister of her father, Celebrimbor. When my friend betrayed Sauron’s plan for the Rings, the Deceiver did not retaliate immediately. He kidnapped Rhonith first, in an attempt to get Celebrimbor to give up his knowledge. He was inconsolable. Much can be said of the stoic visage the Eldar present – especially the Noldor – but although it may not show on our faces, we love very deeply. Our children are few and precious. In my whole Realm, there are currently only two Elflings. Another will be born before year’s end, but that makes only three in this century.” He cast a sharp look at the dwarf who was still bristling with anger, but had fallen into the vacant chair across from his own. Thorin boggled, against his will. He had thought children rare among his own people, especially after the dragon had driven them to a life in Ered Luin, where they could only just scrape a living… but not _this_ rare. Thranduil continued slowly, “Rhonith was captive for years… alone in a tower at first, though when Sauron finally got his hands on Celebrimbor himself, he released Rhonith quickly… into the ‘care’ of one of his dragon lieutenants. We rescued her, though it took us years to find her. Celebrimbor never knew she survived and that haunts her too, I believe. When we got her free of its clutches, she was barely alive.” Thranduil swallowed the rest of his wine, pouring himself another staring into the ruby liquid for a long moment. “Her _fëa[70]_ had separated so far from her _hröa_[71] that she might easily have perished. The dragon broke her mind and tormented her spirit. We feared we would have to send her to Valinor to gain a measure of peace. It took many, many moons before we were certain she would make it. We saved her, but Rhonith was not the same after her ordeal. She came here, her mind terribly scarred. She remembered her true parents and the languages she had learned, but she needed parents… protection. Narví was old, for a dwarf, when Rhonith was born and with Celebrimbor gone, Nínimeth and I were the closest to family she had. I claimed her as my daughter by heart. She grew up alongside our eldest sons” Thranduil gave the dwarf a hard stare and dropped the glamour that covered the scarring on his face. Thorin recoiled in shock. The Elvenking truly had only half a face. The rest was a mess of scar tissue and one of his eyes was obviously dead, milky white. The Elvenking took a fortifying sip of Dorwinion. “I show you this, not for pity, but to show you what I suffered at the talons of a dragon. Dragonfire is as unkind to the Eldar as it is to the Dwarrow,” the Elvenking sighed and took another sip of Dorwinion. “The day Smaug flew towards Erebor, Rhonith was on the edge of the forest. She ran here, to me, wild with terror. Smaug was the same colour as the one who had held her captive, you see, and she feared it was Aparuiwë returned. She barely managed to gasp out the word dragon before collapsing in the front hall.” He fixed a stern stare at Thorin. “She may not be my child, but she _is_ my daughter and I would not see her in such grief if it was within my power to prevent it. I have sought to protect her to the best of my abilities, without stifling her adventurous spirit, which is no simple task. She believes she has a duty to you and your people, but I _will not_ let her face another dragon, ever again.” He finished firmly, before his face once more returned to its unmarred appearance with a shudder. 

Thorin nodded, rage subdued, and more than a little awed by the strength of will in Thranduil’s words and demeanour. “She should stay. If she had told me, I would have done the same thing you did.” The two kings lapsed into silence, each contemplating the personality of the other. A servant entered quietly with a midday meal of bread and cold meat, and the two shared the meal in companionable silence. Thorin cast about for a new topic of conversation and finally remembered his earlier apprehensions. “Will the Master attempt to stop us from reaching the Mountain?” He had not thought to broach this topic with Thranduil before, though the merchant he had spoken to at meal-times – introduced by Curulhénes, whose family traded cloth with a merchant in Laketown – had been effusively eloquent on the topic… to the point Thorin thought he _had_ to be exaggerating. To his displeasure, he would come to learn that Curulhénes’ kinsman had actually been understating the hassle the Master presented. 

Thranduil considered his answer quietly. He had not personally dealt with the Man, but he had heard few flattering things about it character. “The Master… he is an odious man. Manipulative and cruel to his people, he is greedy and his table is always full, even when his people go hungry. However, he likes to seem benevolent, which may be to your advantage. If you can, I would propose you ally yourself with Bard, I think you will find him a worthy friend. He works as a bargeman on my river. My Steward speaks well of his character.”

Thorin frowned, wondering if Thranduil was playing a joke on him. In the weeks he had known the Elvenking, however, Thranduil had not struck him as a joke-making person. He would sometimes smile at one of Rhonith’s quips or the antics of his subjects, but Elves never seemed to joke in the sense that Dwarrow understood joking. “A bargeman? Why would a bargeman have more power over the people than their Master?”

“Because Bard is their true ruler, and they know it. You knew Girion of old, did you not, Thorin-King?” Thranduil asked, studying the dwarf over the rim of his goblet.

“Aye, he was a good man. I only met him twice, but he seemed to have been a fair ruler in the seven years he held the lordship.” Thorin frowned, searching his memory, but all that came to mind was a grim-faced man in a meeting with his grandfather. Girion had been seething, though Thorin no longer remembered what the topic had been, but he had been wise enough not to antagonise his fellow ruler, a trait Thorin himself often found difficult to possess.

“Girion, Lord of Dale, perished in Smaug’s attack on the glorious city. His wife and young son, however, did not. That son is Bard’s ancestor.” Thorin choked on his wine.

“Why is he not the leader of Laketown?” he asked, rather incredulously. The Lordship of Dale had been passed from father to son for as long as the title had existed.

“The Men of Laketown would have him, I would think, but Bard himself does not truly wish to rule, he simply wishes to make a good life for his children. He was too young when the Master came to power, and the Master has only grown harsher and greedier over the past thirty years. I believe that his people would welcome him if he were to take up the mantle of his forebears and lead them to a prosperous future. Truly, the Master cannot continue as he is, or he will face revolt. I have been reliably informed that Laketown would gain a new leader within the next five years simply due to human nature. There are those among my people who foster closer ties with Men and get involved in their goings-on. I receive regular reports of the state of our neighbouring realms. I have always believed that a well-informed ruler is a key necessity for a kingdom. My people prefer our isolated existence and most care little for the lands outside our borders, but outside influences do occur.” The two kings shared a silent moment of contemplation in the wake of Thranduil’s speech. The chat turned once more to the plans regarding the dragon, Thranduil using the next few hours to drill weaknesses and strategies into Thorin’s head. Eventually, there were no more tweaks to be made and Thorin stood to leave.

“I wish to see our great kingdom restored to its former splendour, but to do so we will need trade with the outside realms. Dwarrow too tend to keep themselves separate from the realms beyond our mountains, but our life since Erebor was lost has taught us much about co-existence with Men. I will attempt a tentative alliance with this Master of Laketown, but keep Bard as a possible ally and friend if I can. If we are to rebuild Dale, it will need bargemen too at the very least.” Thranduil chuckled wryly and Thorin continued, “I hope we can make the North as prosperous as it was before Smaug came.”

“For that, you will definitely need the Men of Dale.”

“I thank you for your insights today, Thranduil-King.” Thorin bowed and turned to exit the study.

“If you keep on as you have shown your nature here in my halls, I think you shall be a fair king, Thorin. Your mother would be proud. You may call me Thranduil. I think we may yet see true friendship between Elves and Dwarrow in this third age of the world.” He smiled softly. Thorin bowed again, graciously accepting the inherent praise of his words.

“I thank you, Thranduil…and you will of course call me Thorin.” He left, grinning to himself. Today had been a good step on a very long journey home.

* * *

When Legolas finally located Rhonith, she was still staring contemplatively across the river. He joined her quietly, taking off his soft leather boots to dangle his feet in the river beside her. Neither spoke for a long time.

“ _Atheg_[72] _is right. I should stay here_.” Rhonith finally broke the quiet, but Legolas simply wrapped an arm around her and brought her head to rest on his shoulder. The two sat in silence for the rest of the afternoon, enjoying the sounds of the forest around them.

* * *

That evening, as the official send-off, the Company had been invited to dine with the royal family in the royal dining hall. They had all spent the afternoon searching for the lost elleth, but eventually Fíli and Kíli had spotted the two elves by the riverbank and retreated without being noticed. They had spread the gossip quickly, and when the doors opened to admit Ilsamirë alone, they stared. The elleth paid them no mind as she headed straight for the King. Thranduil watched her, as impassive as ever, and only someone who knew him well would have seen the tension in him. When she reached the end of the table, she reached out slowly, letting the tip of her finger graze his ear. The Elvenking’s appearance did not seem to change, but a hush went through the room nonetheless as his stance relaxed. He returned the gesture and waved Ilsamirë to take the open seat beside the prince who had snuck in shortly before. Slowly, the guests returned to their meal, none of the dwarrow truly understanding the significance of the little interaction, but leaving the elves to bask in their mutual reassurance of forgiveness.

* * *

 

After the meal, Ilsamirë sought out Thorin and the Company in their quarters, carrying a tray of sweet nibbles she had begged off the cook. A hearty welcome greeted her as the door opened, and she was instantly fussed over by Dori, who had only been informed of her disappearance at dinner. The elleth waved off his concern with a lovely smile and when the worried frown did not lessen, she plied him with tea and biscuits before calling out to the rest of the group.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” A round of hearty welcomes greeted her and she allowed herself to bask in the warmth of her mother’s people. The Dwarrow set upon the tray with a voraciousness that would not have been unexpected in people who’d been starved for a fortnight and Ilsamirë laughed happily. Thorin was sat in the corner and observed her through strands of his dark hair. He nodded to himself and stood.

“My Lady, I would speak with you, please.” She looked up and smiled, but Thorin saw a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. He grasped Bilbo’s shoulder and pulled him along as he strode into the next room, assured that she would follow. A rowdy song had broken out among the others, and their departure went unnoticed by all but Balin. Bilbo looked up at the dwarf-king with a confused mien.

“What’s going on, Thorin?” he asked, unused to being dragged off to a private meeting with their leader. That was more Dwalin’s style, and Bilbo looked around nervously. The burly warrior still scared him more than he was willing to admit, and had done so ever since he had first appeared at the door of Bag End so many moons ago.

“Simple, Master Bilbo. I wish to speak to our elf on a difficult matter. You’re the most non-threatening member of our Company and she is reasonably fond of you. I wish her to be at ease during our conversation.” Thorin was proud of his on-the-fly reasoning. The little hobbit was growing on him, proving himself a true friend.

“But why not ask one of her brothers?” Bilbo’s confusion trailed off into silence when the door shut behind them and Thorin turned to face the lady. He bade her sit and placed himself in front of her.

“I believe you have things to discuss with me, my Lady.” he said, not unkindly, trying to set Ilsamirë at ease.

She breathed a heavy sigh and leaned back in the chair, watching him shrewdly. “You already know. Atheg told you.”

“Yes, I do, but I would still like to hear it from you.” He shot her a measuring glance and she chuckled ruefully.

“As I’m sure Thranduil told you, I have promised him that I will stay here. I will not be going with you to the Mountain.” Thorin nodded. He had expected that she would see the reason in Thranduil’s demand and comply with it, though he had been prepared to ban her from following them if necessary. 

Bilbo gaped, “Why?!” which made Thorin realise that he possibly ought to have informed the Company of his new knowledge beforehand. He shot Bilbo an annoyed look, but the hobbit did not notice, all his attention riveted on the elleth. She gave him a calming smile and replied readily.

“Because, dear Bilbo, you go to face a dragon. I would be less than useless against Smaug, and in fact I might be a hindrance to your goal. You see, I have been in the company of dragons.” She untied her flowing robe slowly, revealing a patch of pale, creamy skin on her hip. As she turned, a smaller patch caught the light, shimmering subtly. On the side of Ilsamirë’s hip was a small, shield shaped, red-gold marking. “You see what this is, Thorin?” Thorin nodded, he could guess, even if he had not known it was possible.

“It looks like…a scale,” exclaimed Bilbo, “like those on a snake but bigger!”

“It is a dragon’s scale. Once, very long ago, I was the captive of a dragon. The Deceiver wished for my father to tell him where he had hidden the Rings of Power he had made for the Elves. I don’t know if you are aware, Thorin, but the Ring worn by Thrór was created by my father and given to your many times great grandfather. At first, my father kept his discovery of the Deceiver’s duplicity quiet, trying to figure out how best to counteract his plan. In his cunning, however, my father forgot to consider that I knew Annatar only as his friend, and not as someone to suspect of any wrong-doing. I do not remember what happened between going with Annatar, who claimed that he had found something he wanted me to see, and waking up in my prison tower. I spent fifty years there, before I was given into the keeping of a dragon, like a hoarded treasure. The dragon kept me as her pet for almost thirty years, I was told, though I do not remember most of those years.” Her eyes seemed locked on something far-away that only she could see, her face wan and pale as she continued speaking in a deadened monotone; a far cry from the animated storyteller they had previously seen her be. Thorin began to regret his plan. Surely no tale was worth tormenting her so? Bilbo was whimpering, pressing himself close to Thorin’s side, which made the Dwarf-King feel guilty for dragging him into the conversation. Bilbo had – from the beginning – been more than fond of the pretty elleth, he knew, and her obvious distress pained the both of them. Squeezing Bilbo’s hand was all the comfort he dared give, however, not wanting to risk interrupting Ilsamirë before she was finished with whatever she wanted them to know. "To explain my scale,” she continued monotonously, “I need to regale you with a bit of the history of dragons. Like Orcs, Dragons were once different creatures. They were once great silver and gold sand Serpents, living in the deserts to the East. About as tall as a horse and three horses long, they were much smaller than the form you know. Like wolves, the Sand Serpents were pack animals. Also like wolves, their packs consisted of one breeding alpha pair, with an attached assortment of lesser ranked Serpents. A peaceful race, they spent their days hunting prey animals and basking in the warmth of the baking sun. They did breathe fire, using it to heat the sand underneath them to ward off the night-time chills and piling up to share their warmth. In their most basic nature, dragons long to be surrounded by treasure because these Sand Serpents were gold or silver in colour and it soothes their feelings of inherent abandonment.”

Thorin interrupted, confused, but almost involuntary, “Abandonment? But dragons are solitary creatures.” At his side, Bilbo jumped, having been entirely absorbed by the story.

“True, and that is perhaps the greatest crime Melkor committed against these gentle animals when he tortured and twisted them into the monstrous beasts we know now. A pack animal, when separated from its pack and unable to return, will either find a new pack or it will simply give up its will to live and die off in solitude and misery. Melkor took the Sand Serpents and with his songs of discord, he grew in them a new nature, one of fierce competitiveness and rage. But the dragons’ souls remember that they used to need their brothers and sisters. Melkor made them incapable of co-habitation, but he did not remove the pack animal’s instinct entirely. This is why dragons hoard treasures. One thing he left with them, however, was their method of imprinting. Dragons are fierce guards, but anything even vaguely flesh-like is food to them. Thus the problem of them guarding something that wasn’t an object and something that the captors wished to remain alive and uneaten. The solution was part of leftover biology from the Sand Serpents. The alpha pair would mark their pack with a single scale torn from their hide and inserted into the skin of the new member. The single scale makes the recipient smell differently to a dragon’s senses. No longer ‘food’ but ‘family’.” She tried to give them a smile meant to be reassuring, Thorin thought, but it fell short of the mark by far.  “The reason I cannot face Smaug is twofold; firstly, to him, I smell like a rival dragon and, if he got a sniff of me near his mountain, his territorial instincts might wake him. Secondly, I do not believe, even if I could survive meeting him, that my mind would stay anchored through my fear. Although my guard did not kill me, she was extremely fond of causing me mental anguish and playing games. By the time I was rescued, my soul and my body had departed so far from each other that it took all the combined knowledge of Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel and Nínimeth to get me back to my own mind afterwards. If she had not been as a sister to me and as such capable of calling me back from the darkness, my soul would have perished and I would have been no more.” She shuddered once, but continued bravely. Thorin appreciated that she held nothing back, even her own cowardice, which he could tell annoyed her. He wanted to tell her that there was no shame in being scared of dragons, something she shared with all who had seen Smaug destroy Erebor, even if a singular sighting couldn’t compare to thirty years of constant suffering. He did not doubt that she had truly suffered; it was clear in her eyes. “The mere sight of Smaug on the day he first attacked was enough to send me so far into a state of terror that I feared I’d lose hold of my _fëa_. Thranduil spent the entire ride to Erebor trying to bring me out of my state of abject terror.” The hobbit could not hold back a cry of anguish at the pure desolation on her face at that point and launched himself at her, hugging her tightly and attempting to keep her anchored to the present through physical touch. Thorin mentally beamed. Taking Bilbo along had been a great idea. Ilsamirë startled then looked down at the curly-haired head pushing against her stomach. One hand came up, slowly carding through the soft strands as she sighed. “Do not fret, Bilbo. Do you see now, why I cannot face another dragon?” The hobbit nodded but did not let go. Ilsamirë’s attention turned to Thorin and she shrugged apologetically. The king gave her a soft smile, a rare expression on his usually stern and gloomy features.

“I agreed with Thranduil. You should stay here. For now, could you go and see if the others have packed, we leave for Laketown on the morrow and I would like to get an early start.” Thorin said, and the grateful look she gave him at the implied permission to escape warmed him to the bone.

“ **Akhminruki astû, Uzbadu dulgu Thorin Mutkê**.[73]” Ilsamirë nodded solemnly and carefully extricated herself from the clinging hobbit, patting his head for comfort. She quietly left the room, leaving Thorin to look fondly at the Burglar who was surreptitiously trying to dry his eyes.

“You are fond of her. Her pain troubles you. There is no shame in that, Master Burglar,” he rumbled from behind Bilbo, startling the poor hobbit into jumping up and whirling to face him, hastily wiping his eyes.

“No, no, I know. I- I should go sort out my pack. Good evening, your majesty.” Bilbo fled. Thorin scowled at the ceiling. He had not meant to embarrass the little Burglar. Shaking his head, he turned to his own pack, going over his own gear one last time. His clothes had been washed and mended and the elves had packed loaves of their leaf-wrapped lembas where they would not get wet. He smiled, for the first time thinking truly fondly of Thranduil and thanking his foresight. They would still need to pack food for the journey to Laketown and resupply there, but the lembas would last for months so they would not starve before they reached the mountain.

 

When Ilsamirë left Thorin’s room, she tried to leave the Guest Quarters of the Dwarrow unobtrusively, but was waylaid by Balin, who followed her out the door. The old dwarf rested a calm hand on her tense shoulder. Ilsamirë sighed deeply.

“You alright, lass?” he asked, worried by the look he had caught in her eyes as she passed. He had seen something similar in Dwalin’s when his younger brother’s ghosts haunted him particularly harshly.

Ilsamirë turned slowly, giving him a watery smile. “Not really, Master Balin. Bad memories, you know.” Balin nodded. He did know. His own memories of Azanulbizar would never be as bad as the one when he realised that Skaro had not made it out of Erebor, but they still returned every now and again to haunt his dreams. Dwalin suffered far worse, simply because his chosen path often caused him to relive the deaths he could not prevent, whereas the work of a Scribe and advisor to the King rarely involved active combat. The Quest was the first time Balin had left Ered Luin in more than fifteen years, and it had already given him fodder for several new nightmares; the Goblins, the Orcs and falling from the cliff-top trees, not to mention the giant spiders they had encountered in Mirkwood’s gloom.

“Let’s go find a cup of tea.” He patted her shoulder and wrapped her hand around his arm, walking slowly down the corridor. When they reached the kitchen, the white-haired dwarf easily charmed a pot of chamomile from the cook who also rustled up a few sweet buns. Tea would help calm her down, distance herself from whatever Thorin’s conversation had stirred, Balin knew. “Now, I will walk you back to your chambers and then you’ll tell old Balin what’s troubling you, lass.” Ilsamirë’s smile was tremulous, but she led the way nonetheless. Neither spoke, letting a comfortable silence settle. Once the tea was poured, Balin raised a querying eyebrow.

“Just memories stirred, Balin. All this talk of dragons… I was captured by a dragon once, and the memories are… unpleasant.” Her gaze was haunted and the old dwarf nodded wisely, changing the subject easily. The look of gratitude that flashed over her face made him smile.

“Was that what the ear touching at dinner was about?” he had obviously been puzzled by the custom since their first encounter with Legolas, but the forest floor surrounded by poorly disguised Elvish hostility had not been a good time to ask and he had forgotten until the scene at the dinner table.

“Touching ears to elves is a gesture of comfort and familiarity.” She reached across the small table, clasped his neck, and rested her forehead gently against his. They both breathed slowly for a few heartbeats then parted. “Just like the kin-blessing for Dwarrow. Touching the ears of an elf is more intimate though,” she explained, “as it is often a part of the combing ritual as well as more intimate endeavours.”

“Combing?” he asked again, both because he was genuinely curious – reminding himself to explain it to Ori later – and to keep her thinking about something else, a tactic that usually worked on his brother too. Ilsamirë ducked her head slightly, a soft blush staining her cheeks.

“The combing ritual is a way to ease into reverie with another, a meeting of _fëa_. You know we don’t sleep like mortals do. We can, but it is rare that we are exhausted enough to need it. Instead we enter reverie, a way to walk among memories and dreams. When combing with someone, their _fëa_ joins yours. Unless between a married couple it’s done in groups. Combing privately with someone else is almost as good as a declaration of intent, except under special extenuating circumstances. You can comb alone, but it is not as relaxing. When I am here, I usually join Legolas’s group for combing. It’s only something done with someone you trust deeply,” she smiled, “and once an elf has found their _hervenn_ or _herbess[74]_ , combing is usually a prelude for deeper pleasures, but even among friends it’s an intimate bond. Parents do it with their children, but comrades and friends may comb together.”

“So you comb with the king and the prince?” Balin was intrigued by this insight into Elven everyday life.

“No. Thranduil does not comb with anyone. Not since Nínimeth was lost to him.” Ilsamirë looked melancholy at the thought, but Balin could not understand precisely what that meant to an Elf, of course.

“But you touched his ears!” he exclaimed instead, confused.

“Yes, but that is mostly a friendly, familiar greeting among elves. I named him Atheg, and he considers me a daughter. It is only a part of the combing ritual, not necessarily a prelude, although the rules of who is allowed such intimacy are the same as for combing. If Thranduil would accept my comb, I would join him, but he has never expressed desire to. I think it would hurt him too much. She’s been gone nearly 3000 years, but he still feels it as if she had only just sailed. Combing with another would be a stain on his memory of her, I think. He doesn’t even comb with his children.”

“Thranduil has children? I thought he only had Legolas? We’ve only seen one princeling.” Balin frowned. Even if they were out on patrols like Legolas had been when they met him, it was odd that these older children of Thranduil had never even been mentioned.

“No, Thranduil and Nínimeth had four sons. Thalion was the eldest, I told you he died at Dagorlad. Thandir and Thonnon are the elves you haven’t met and Legolas is the youngest.” Ilsamirë said, forcing herself to remain calm when she spoke their names. Even so many years later, she still felt great fury at those who had dared hurt her Leaf.

“So the Prince is not the heir?” Balin wondered, having never – even when he was simply apprenticing under Fundin in Erebor – heard that there was more than one Prince of the Woodland Realm.

“If Thranduil had an heir, he would have sailed to the West long ago. He would have followed Nínimeth, but his duty has always been to his people first, his heart second.” She said, sipping her tea slowly.

“But surely his children could take the throne if he abdicated.” Balin looked confused. Ilsamirë simply looked sad.

“Legolas is not a ruler. He is beloved by his people, but he is not responsible, experienced, or mature enough to rule a land populated by Silvans. He is untested, in a way. There have been no major wars in his lifetime where he might have shown his mettle as a commander, even though he is a more than capable group commander.” She shook her head sadly. “Thranduil is stuck here I fear. Thalion would have been a good king, but if he were still around, it wouldn’t be an issue after all.”

“Why couldn’t the brothers be accepted as rulers?” Her disdain for them was obvious in the way her lip curled and she avoided speaking their names more than necessary. Balin was beginning to feel that what he was about to learn would be truly horrendous.

“What do you see when you look at the Elves here, Balin?” Rhonith studied the old dwarf shrewdly. Although she was older than him by millennia, the white-haired dwarf gave off an almost avuncular feel.

“What do you mean?”

“Compare these Elves to the ones you met in Imladris.”

“Well, Lord Elrond was very refined and his Elves were unfailingly polite, but I gathered they didn’t like us much at all. These Elves seem more lively, although I still don’t think they like us much.” Balin smiled wryly.

“Partially correct. The Silvans and Sindar here are very different from the Eldar elsewhere. Silvans are by nature wilder and more outwardly emotional than other kinds of elves, and have very clear notions of hierarchy, which means that they actually require a king to rule, not simply a Lord, like Elrond. Bofur’s stunt with dancing on tables and singing lewd tavern songs would be far more accepted in this court than it was in Imladris,” she winked, “although they probably would not let you know. My point is that the Silvans treat their royalty as people who have to have earned their loyalty as well as the right to rule. Thranduil’s two eldest sons would never gain the loyalty of his subjects. I told you that Nínimeth sailed shortly after the birth of Legolas, but I don’t think I mentioned the effect it had on Thranduil. An Elven marriage is far more intimate than that of Men or Dwarrow. It is a deep connection of spirit as well as a binding of souls and bodies. When one dies, or, as in this case, crosses the border to Valinor, the bond is severed, snapping back on the one left behind. The effect is said to be akin to a whip lashing at your mind. The soul keeps searching for the departed, ranging farther and farther out unless stopped, either by the Elf in question or by someone with the power to pull the soul back into the body. The process is called fading. It can also be initiated by grief or other kinds of emotional pain. When the soul has fully abandoned the body, the Elf in question will disappear entirely.” Rhonith sighed, reminded once more of those dark years. “Depending on the length of the union, this search and rebound can take decades, and Thranduil and Nínimeth were together for millennia. He sank into a sort of mental fog, and stayed in that space for several years, leaving the raising of Nínimeth’s ‘Little Leaf’ to his two elder sons, who had wives and children of their own by then. This is a fairly common practise among Elves, and it is considered an honour by most. Not so by Thandir and Thonnon. They were always petty as children, and the responsibility for their younger brother did not sit well with them. They blamed Legolas for their mother’s passing and made certain the child knew it. They were cruel and neglectful to him. I blame myself, for I should have returned to the Greenwood after I put her on the ship, but I could not face the heartache of walking these Halls without her for some time after I left the Grey Havens. I knew Thandir and Thonnon, but I did not imagine the depth of their cruelty. The Silvan elves, well, Nínimeth was a Silvan and they are very good at looking after their own. This cruelty to her beloved child did not sit well with anyone, and by the time Thranduil returned to full mental capacity, the damage had been done. No Silvan will mention their names if possible, and if one were to attempt to take the throne it would end in violence. Silvans do not easily forget cruelty, and telling a small child that his _naneth_ was so disappointed in him that she sailed was cruel indeed. Thranduil knows this, and thus he cannot leave. He banished his sons from his Halls and raised Legolas himself.” Balin nodded, his old dwarf heart twinging at the thought of such senseless pain being inflicted on an innocent child. All dwarrow are fond of children and Balin considered it the height of cruelty to mistreat a child. Rhonith sighed, “Thonnon never forgave Thranduil for the absence of his Naneth, never believed how ill she truly was in the end… and Thandir died in war, long ago, fighting to redeem himself.” They finished their tea in silence and then the dwarf bid Ilsamirë goodnight. She smiled at him, grateful for the attempt to alleviate her troubled mind, even if the topic they had ended on was only a little less painful than her incarceration. “Balin. I will see you off tomorrow, but…” Gripping the old dwarf’s hand firmly, Ilsamirë squeezed it once. “ **Mukhuh bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi astû**[75].”

The old dwarf nodded, smiling at the familiar words. How many times had he not spoken them himself when Dwalin would set off as a caravan guard? “ **Akhminruki astî**.[76]” He replied and kissed her forehead, then made his way back to the guest rooms in silent contemplation of the night’s revelations.

 

###### notes:

[64] Let me protect you

[65] Would you please? For us.

[66] As you wish.

[67] Father of mine(formal).

[68] Mother

[69] Oh, my love, I wish to speak to you. You are wise. She listens to you

[70] Spirit/soul

[71] Physical body

[72] Little father (also the name for thumb) here used to denote a non-bloodbased relationship.

[73] Thank you, King-in-exile Thorin Mutkê. - Mutkê is an acronym for " **Mu** khuh ta **kay** yili" meaning “May he continue to live”. It is an honorific title.

[74] Hervenn = husband , herbess= wife

[75] May Mahal's hammer shield you (Safe travels)

[76] Thank you wholeheartedly (directed at a female)


	9. Leavings and Lakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey takes a deadly turn and a phobia is unleashed. Thorin's temper is tested, and Legolas proves himself useful.

In the morning, the Company gathered up their packs, filled with food, and set off, turning back only once, to wave at Ilsamirë who stood by Thranduil in the doorway, watching them leave and shouting a final Elven blessing in farewell:

“ _No gelin idh raid dhîn, a no adel dîn i chwest_ _.[77]”_

With them came Prince Legolas and the seven members of his group, to serve as guides through the forest and emissaries to the Master of Laketown. Kíli had instantly cornered the tall elf and engaged him in a discussion of archery, leaving Legolas bemused and charmed in spite of himself. He endured the gentle mocking of his comrades for days, grateful that they kept their teasing to Sindarin. It would not do to have the dignified prince be called out on the irregular blushing in the company of Ilsamirë that his face seemed to delight in, in front of a company of dwarrow. Not only would it be a blow to his pride if they also began mocking him, at least with his friends, he knew the teasing was fondly meant, but the dwarrow had adopted her as a sister and he was slightly worried that they would attack him for any perceived slight. That would be a diplomatic disaster, he was sure.

 

 

On the second day out from the Halls, the Orcs attacked. Faindirn’s warning came almost too late, for they had chosen a perfect spot for an ambush, with thick undergrowth to hide them, and suddenly the travellers were embroiled in bitter combat for their lives.

Running through the forest, weaving in and out of the trees and jumping from branch to branch; the Prince of the Woodland Realm was exhilarated. Adding in the presence of Orcs and the twang of his bow made it thrilling. The war-cries the dwarrow bellowed in defiance made his heart sing. Another Orc fell to a well-placed arrow and he grinned impishly at the bald dwarf – Dwalin? He could hardly keep track of their similar names, but the bald one was scary – growled and raised his axes to the next foe. Legolas shouted in glee and took off again, finding himself next to Thalawen as she plunged her sword into the guts of a huge Orc. He nearly gagged at the smell, but a shout from behind distracted him and he turned, only to see the blade aimed at his back fall, the wielder struck down by a thrown axe. He looked up and saw the smirking dwarf-king. Legolas grinned back, before his expression hardened and he aimed swiftly. Thorin’s face only just registered shock when the bow twanged, but the dwarf-king was not the one struck by the feathered shaft. Thorin whirled, seeing it quiver in the eye of a felled Orc. The king and the prince exchanged another smirk and threw themselves into the fray with renewed vigour. A scream rang out through the threes. The dwarf Crown Prince stabbed the largest orc in the back, and, leaderless, the orcs scattered. Legolas’s archers hurriedly picked off the last stragglers, but a few escaped.  
A terrible wail rent the air and Legolas finally spotted its originator. Thalawen was kneeling on the leaf-strewn mulch of the forest floor, her hervenn, Dínelloth, lying next to her. His eyes stared at the blue sky, unseeing. His tunic had changed from its normal forest green to a vivid crimson. There was only a gaping hole were his throat had been, carved open by a serrated Orc blade. Thalawen’s wailing continued as the dwarrow watched sadly and the elven guards tried in vain to offer some sort of comfort. Legolas knelt and closed Dínelloth’s eyes gently. He bowed his head. Thalawen slumped over the body, tears coursing down her face.

“ _Govano i nothrim în adh i mellyn în mi Mannos. Nínion an gwannad lîn_.[78]” Around him, the words were echoed by his patrol group. Thalawen shook desolately, but managed to croak the final sentence of the ritual:

“ _Hiro hîdh nen gurth Dínelloth, Iorthonion, hervenn-nîn_.[79]”

The elves all bowed their heads to their fallen comrade, then swiftly set about cutting down branches and weaving them together to create a makeshift litter. The dwarrow helped with the task, some cutting down branches, a few beginning to gather supplies for making camp and the little one – Ori – sat quietly on a rock and wrote in his book. A stray tear glinted on his cheek. Thalawen did not move from her position, sprawled across Dínelloth’s still chest. His blood had seeped into her clothing, but the elleth did not seem to notice, her eyes staring at something only she could see.

“What will you do with the body?” Thorin asked quietly beside Legolas.

“Tonight, we will all rest here, at the site of his death. After sun-down we will hold silent vigil. At first light Arastor and Tuilinthel will take Dínelloth back to our Halls on the litter. Thalawen will follow. When they return to my father’s Halls, there will be a feast in his memory and his body will be given to rest under his favourite tree. Then Thalawen will build a cairn at the tree as is her right, and write a _conath rîn_[80]. In a year, she will sing it for us in _I Tham-en-Naur_[81].”

“They were family?” Thorin asked, but Balin replied instead of Legolas:

“No. Thalawen was his wife.”

“She was. Theirs was a short union,” Legolas sighed sadly, “they have not been together twenty years, yet. It will be difficult for her. They had only just begun discussing elflings and now she will never be a mother.”

“How did you know, Balin?” Thorin was stumped. His advisor had barely spoken to either of the elves on their journey so far.

“I saw them at night,” Balin hesitated, glancing at Legolas’s pallid visage, “the-the combing. Ilsamirë explained that it was something spouses did and I never saw them with anyone but each other. The rest of the elves swap partners several times in an evening, but Dínelloth and Thalawen were always together.”

Legolas chuckled, melancholy. “You are observant, Master Balin, and you are indeed correct, we all comb freely with each other.”

The night passed in solemn silence. Even Fíli and Kíli respected the vigil of the elves and kept still. Bifur was busily carving a piece of birch wood, but mostly the dwarrow were simply smoking, sleeping or staring into the dancing flames of the fire. Bilbo had curled up under Thorin’s borrowed cloak and the dwarf king did not have the heart to deny him the comfort of hiding beneath the furs. It wasn’t chilly enough to be worth the bother, and once Dwalin’s solid bulk joined him, the shared heat from his Kurdel kept him happy. The hobbit looked very small, and Thorin realised that this must have been the first battle-death Bilbo had witnessed. Dwalin took his hand and squeezed it once before falling easily into the warrior’s restful watch-stance. The small contact was all the two needed to communicate their happiness that the other was unharmed. The elves surrounded the litter with Dínelloth’s body, sitting perfectly still and silent, starlight glinting in their open eyes. Each had a hand on their fallen comrade. Thalawen had joined her husband on the litter, still clinging to his still form. Her wailing had stopped, but tears still dripped from her eyes.

 

In the morning, the dwarrow broke camp, as Arastor, Tuilinthel and Thalawen prepared to leave them. Legolas was saying his final farewells, when a hand poked his arm. He looked down to find the scary quiet dwarf with the axe lodged in his head staring up at him. Next to Bifur, the small scribe Ori was fidgeting nervously. He cleared his throat and looked at Thalawen.

“Bifur made something for your husband. It’s a tradition among our people that a friend be given tokens for burial.” The wild-looking dwarf held out his hand to Thalawen. On his palm was a perfectly carved flower, which Legolas recognised as an _uilos_[82]; each petal carefully shaped and looking as if it had just been plucked from the stem. Bifur put the flower in Thalawen’s hand and bowed, then strode back to his cousins. Ori blushed hard and stammered.

“Bi-Bifur s-said that his name was a flower. We didn’t know him well, but it was fitting. I m-made this.” He held out a shaking hand, clutching a piece of paper from his sketchbook. “I drew all of you when you came with us, but I thought you might like this.” Thalawen scrutinised the flustered young dwarf, then looked down at the paper in her hand. She unfolded it and gasped loudly. Tears began falling down her cheeks and she clutched it to her breast. Her eyes darted over Legolas for a second then she strode forward briskly and bent to press a kiss to Ori’s cheek. The lad blushed harder if that was even possible. The elleth straightened and whispered a soft “ _Gûr nîn glassui_![83]” before walking over and repeating the action with Bifur, who stuttered something incomprehensible and patted her arm distractedly. Thalawen lifted her face to the dwarrow who were watching her keenly. As one they bowed to her, a farewell from one warrior to another. She smiled thinly and returned to Arastor’s side. She held the paper carefully and the elves all craned their heads to see. There, captured in ink was the softly smiling face of Dínelloth as he looked down at Thalawen who was reclining in his arms.

After the four elves had left, the dwarrow and their diminished guide team soldiered on towards Laketown.

 

* * *

 

The road to Laketown felt longer than it had seemed when they set off from the Elvenking’s Halls. The remaining Elves were quieter than usual and the dwarrow seemed equally lost in sombre contemplation. Four nights away from the battle with the Orcs, the spell of silent grieving that had surrounded the group lifted enough for a few verses of song around their nightly campfire. The Company also realised that the forest, which had seemed devoid of animal life on their way to Thranduil’s Halls was not, in fact, as dead as it had seemed. Aside from the giant moths and the rangy squirrels they had seen, there were birds here, something Ori realised after a flash of blue feathers resulted in his lembas going missing.

“Ada lifted the spells our defences layered on you when you entered our lands. You now see Mirkwood as it truly is. I know he was worried about Master Baggins in particular, as he would be affected differently than the rest of you because he is a Hobbit.” Legolas looked directly at Bilbo, peering searchingly at his face to spot any discomfort. “You felt sick when you first entered the forest, didn’t you, Master Baggins?” he asked. Bilbo nodded, shuddering at the memory of the almost slimy feeling of nausea that had plagues him all through their first journey. The sensation had diminished with the presence of the Elven patrol, but it had not completely dissipated until Thranduil had touched his forehead during their audience on their first night in the Halls. “The southern part of the forest is as sick as it appeared when you entered,” Legolas continued when Bilbo protested his companions’ sudden concern with vehement reassurances that he felt perfectly fine. “North of the Old Forest Road we manage to keep it relatively clean, and the land north of the Forest River is yet untainted. When Rhonith was young, this whole forest was Greenwood the Great and my people lived in the southern parts of the forest. When the darkness began spreading from the South again, my Ada moved his people north and built the Halls.” Legolas explained patiently when Ori’s squeak of fright had been translated into a stern glare from Dori. “One day, I hope to see my Realm restored to its former name.” He smiled wistfully, but answered patiently when Ori’s expected barrage of questions attacked him.

Bilbo felt much better about this part of the forest than the ones they had previously walked through. Hobbits had an instinctual affinity for growing things after all, and the tainted ground he had walked had seemed to whisper dark things in his mind. Even the dwarrow seemed to breathe easier.

 

When Laketown finally appeared within their sight on the morning of September 8, Bilbo gasped. No one had mentioned that it was not – as he and any sensible person would have thought – a town by the Long Lake, but a town _on_ the Long Lake. He whimpered. Like most Hobbits (aside from the Stoors, but he didn’t have any Stoor-blood) Bilbo was quite unsettled by water. Bridges were fine, if they had sturdy railings – one thing he had not appreciated about Elven architecture was their utter lack of proper railings – but he would rather not be any closer to a body of water larger than his own bathtub than he had to be. And now the dwarrow and the elves expected him to enter – voluntarily! – a town built on _poles_ on the surface of a large _lake_! The small hobbit almost asked Thorin if he could possibly set up camp away from the shore and just wait for the rest of the Company there. Looking at the town, which seemed to be swaying gently with the current (and Bilbo felt a certain amount of pride that he did not faint upon making that discovery) he was absolutely convinced that the columns would rot through and give way as soon as the stocky dwarrow set foot on the planks. Dwalin, who had kept company with Bilbo throughout the day, noticed his shivering.

“What’s wrong, Master Baggins?” Most of the company had relented and called their hobbit Bilbo, but Dwalin thought the formality might settle the hobbit’s nerves. It did not work as well as he might have hoped, but Bilbo did stop whimpering. His hand clamped tightly around Dwalin’s wrist. Dwalin didn’t wince, but only due to his great self-control; the hobbit’s grip was far stronger than his size would have led one to believe. Dwalin was almost impressed.

“It’s… _lake!_ It’s _on_ the lake!” Bilbo babbled; a litany of water-related words interspersed with exclamations of horror and distrust if not outright fear. The two had fallen behind the rest of their companions, while the bald dwarf listened to Bilbo’s fears spilling from his lips. In the privacy of his own mind, he felt faint amusement, but he was a seasoned warrior who knew that fear was not always rational. A fond thought to Dís’s absolute terror of seagulls had him smiling wryly for a second before his face smoothed into lines of concern for their smallest member.

“Can ye not swim, lad?” In a different situation, Bilbo’s expression would have brought him to tears with laughter; such loathing just did not belong on the cheerful face of a Hobbit. Dwalin mastered his own face quickly. He called out to Dori. Bilbo was lost in a vision of himself falling off the rickety bridge he could see in front of him, which was hardly more than pairs of planks tied together with rope. Dwalin explained the problem, handing his weapons and gear to Dori, who could easily carry the extra load. Not many people realised, but Dori, the fussiest of mother hens, was also the strongest dwarf in Ered Luin. Dwalin preferred not to think on the one time he had tried to arm wrestle with Dori. Of course it was Nori’s fault in the first place, but he still remembered the calm way the mithril-haired dwarf had pushed his arm down, as if it took no more effort than lifting one of his teacups. When he was unburdened as far as he was willing to get in front of the watching eyes of elves and men, Dwalin’s heavy hands landed on the Hobbit’s shoulders, startling him out of his fearful visions. Bilbo looked up at the bald dwarf, frightened eyes searching Dwalin’s face until he realised who was in front of him, mercifully blocking the sight of the bridge and the town. “Now, Master Baggins. I am going to pick you up, and you are going to look at me and not at the-” Dwalin corrected himself when he saw Bilbo’s eyes start to glaze over, “where we’re going. I will keep you safe, and I won’t put you down until we are away from the- what we’re crossing. Do ye understand me, lad?” The hobbit nodded. Dwalin took a step forward, and next thing Bilbo knew, he was being held securely against the warriors broad chest. Dwalin’s voice rumbled against his ear, muttering reassurances and encouragement. Bilbo simply closed his eyes and hid his face against Dwalin’s soft shirt. His nose filled with the scent of warm skin, sweat, and metal, and blocked out any hint of water. Dwalin slowly walked across the bridge behind Dori. Both dwarrow gave the humans a hard glare, stalling any comment that might have sprung to their lips. Finally, they were in the town of Esgaroth as the elves had called it. Dwalin kept a tight hold on Bilbo, who fancied himself able to feel the slight swaying of the boardwalks and began to feel queasy.

 

* * *

 

While Bilbo was having a water-based crisis, Thorin had bigger problems to contend with. The guards that the elves had spotted as soon as the town came into view were proving to be an issue.

“We have orders not to let any foreigners into the town. Master’s decree.” One pockmarked guardsman said snidely, looking as though the Company were riffraff begging at the door. His eyes roamed over the dwarrow, widening slightly at their impressive collection of weapons and scowls. The presence of the four elves made a puzzled look appear in his eyes.

Thorin grumbled. The men were being annoyingly stubborn and uncooperative. They would not let them in, but they would not permit them to camp on shore while waiting for a representative of the Master to be summoned, either. Nor would they send a runner to said Master (Thorin was beginning to suspect that Thranduil’s traders had downplayed the annoyance this man presented) so that he might grant the Company leave to enter the city. The elves had stayed in the background, but the rising tension in their Dwarven companions had not gone unnoticed. Finally, just as Thorin was about to lose his temper and chuck both guards into the water, Legolas spoke in his haughtiest tone, copied straight from his father’s when dealing with recalcitrant nobles. The voice made it clear in no uncertain terms that its owner expected full obedience with his wishes and would tolerate no argument.

“I believe I may be able to clear up this minor misunderstanding, guardsman. You see, I am Prince Legolas go-Thranduil[84] of Mirkwood. My dear companion here is King Thorin Oakenshield, whose friendship is crucial to both our peoples. King Thorin simply wishes to see for himself these lands, which he remembers from his youth and my father has sent me along with our honoured Dwarven guests to act as liaison between your Master and His Majesty. You see that Mirkwood has a vested interest here, I trust?” The guardsman nodded. “Therefore it is imperative that I speak with your Master immediately and as I cannot leave my guests and honourable friends to languish in inhospitality out here, I will have to bring them with me to the Master so that we can clear up this little misunderstanding immediately.” The guardsman nodded harder. Legolas smiled, but Thorin had seen him smile genuinely before and this smile sent a cold shiver down his back. It seemed to have the same effect on the guardsman, he thought, with a savage pleasure.

“P-Please a-a-and welcome t-to La-Laketown, your Majesties.” The unfortunate guardsman stumbled back, dragging his hapless friend with him and away from the elf who had given him the willies. Legolas gestured grandly for Thorin to precede him, and the Dwarf-King permitted himself a single hard glare at the guards and an internal smug smirk. Who knew it could be so useful to have an elf on your side?

When they reached the town proper, Legolas bent slightly, speaking in a low tone so he would not be overheard, “I apologise if you did not want your name known just yet. Those guards will certainly send tongues wagging.”

“I doubt it will make much difference.” Thorin rumbled, equally quietly as he watched the passing Men with the slight suspicion his long life as a travelling blacksmith had instilled in him. “Our purpose here will not be aided by subterfuge or stealth.”

 

* * *

 

The Master turned out to be precisely as horrible as Thranduil had warned – if not worse. Thorin was livid. The Master had refused to see them until the day after, so they had to scrounge up their own sustenance at least for the night. They had been shunted off to a ‘Guest-House’ which could easily have doubled as a pigsty. By the state of the kitchen, that occupation might have been its official title, Dori groused, trying to find a pot to boil water for tea. The poor hobbit was still trembling, even though the sight of the water was at least blocked by what the Men deigned to call walls. Dori would not necessarily have agreed with the designation. The building seemed to have been put up with no eye for details or even a rudimentary grasp of measuring or planning. She sighed, finally locating a large metal kettle. She instantly decided to use the first boiled water to clean the kettle. Master Bilbo would simply have to wait for his tea until Dori felt that the brew she could serve was worthy of the name and not something that tasted as if it had been used to wash dishes. Dori huffed. From the doorway Nori snorted. “Make yourself useful, nadad, and find me some cups.” Dori snapped. Nori disappeared with alacrity. Dori glared at the room. She could only make herself call it a kitchen when she didn’t actually have to cook in it. Shaking her head, Dori scrubbed the kettle. At least the Elves had been generous with their supplies, so no one would be starving tonight. She quickly roped Glóin and Óin into helping her set up a simple table. Bombur had sensibly declined the use of the Men’s kettle for their stew and instead hung the one he had been given by Thranduil’s cook over the hearth fire. One of the elves, whose name Dori had been told meant Lone Hunter, had shot a pair of large bucks the day before and they still had enough meat and vegetables for a hearty stew. The elf never spoke and often went off by himself, but he always brought back some form of edible kill, so Dori thought well of him. She didn’t really understand the elven predilection with naming people after what they did, but she chalked it up to one of the peculiarities of the species.

 

* * *

 

Nori had quickly rummaged through the building in search of anything useful, but he had come up with very little. Dori’s task discharged, if not to anyone’s satisfaction, then at least to a degree that it wouldn’t be Nori’s fault if there were no cups, he decided to go see the town. He reasoned that while they’d been _asked_ to remain in the house they had been shown to by armed guards, they had not been _specifically_ told not to leave it. A dwarf felt the need for air, after all, Nori decided, and shimmied open the shutters on a window on the second floor. He easily slipped out, skipped across a few rooftops and scampered down a conveniently located stack of crates. With the unerring instincts of those often found under the auspices of a slightly looser definition of legality, Nori quickly found the place where he could win a bit of gold playing at dice and get his throat wetted by surprisingly well-brewed ale. It was hardly the worst place he had found himself, so Nori shrugged and settled in to obtain some quality local gossip through the help of his new best friends. Nori smirked. It was amazing what buying someone an ale and pretending to be bad at games could earn you. Of course, Nori was actually skilled enough at dice to ensure that he lost steadily. When the Men had told him what he wanted to know, he would begin winning again, leaving the evening with at least as much gold as he’d had when he left the Company.

 

* * *

 

Dwalin had finally managed to extricate himself from the clinging limbs of Bilbo Baggins when they had entered the house. He kindly forbore remarking on the rumpled state of his clothes and gratefully left Bilbo in the fussy hands of Dori while he re-dressed and tried to avoid the smirking face of Thorin. Sometimes his Kurdel had far too much fun at his expense, Dwalin felt, and promised himself that he would wipe the grin off Thorin’s face with a round of sparring at the next possible opportunity. The King had spent the entirety of their walk through Laketown chuckling under his breath and Dwalin wanted very much to steal the smile off his lips somehow – with a fist or a kiss? – he couldn’t decide. The decision was made when Fíli and Kíli decided their Uncle needed a good ribbing for his stint as a Hobbit tree. Dwalin roared a challenge at the impudent youngsters and soon had them crying for mercy in the midst of their laughing. Another booming laugh joined the spectacle and Dwalin looked up to catch the sparkling blue eyes of his King smiling at him. Kissing won, and the bald dwarf quickly freed himself from his conquered foes and stalked towards the King. Thorin backed away quickly up the stairs, wary of the look in Dwalin’s eyes, but not so quickly that Dwalin wouldn’t catch him. The two tumbled into a spare bedroom and were not seen for the rest of the evening. Downstairs, the two young princes smirked at each other and went off to harass their next victim.

 

* * *

 

Balin had wanted to discuss how they would handle the Master, but he knew better than to get between his brother and his King when they had that look in their eyes. Instead, he joined Dori for a lovely cup of tea, uncaring about the grumbling of the mithril-haired dwarf. Balin rather enjoyed listening to the running commentary Dori was prone to slipping into. In a way, it was a very homey thing, Balin considered. Their mother, who had died with the dragon, had been the same when she puttered around their kitchen. The old dwarf lost himself in memories of bygone days, while Dori plied him with several cups of tea and eventually a bowl of stew. Balin consumed both tea and stew absentmindedly, only surfacing from the depth of his recollections once to thank Dori for the meal. The mithril-haired dwarf nodded before returning to his own task, recognizing the look of introspection, and getting busy with making more tea. The two spent most of the evening in companionable silence.

 

* * *

 

Ori joined poor Mr Baggins in the living room and spent his night telling the Hobbit stories he had read as part of his apprenticeship and teasing the princes with stories of some of their more spectacular pranks – or rather, failed pranks – in Ered Luin. The stories had the desired effect of taking Bilbo’s mind off the water sloshing quietly below their feet, and the hobbit even joined in with a few stories of his own youth in the Shire. Ori used the evening to draw; one sketch of the two princes lying intertwined on the floor and listening raptly to the hobbit, one sketch of Bilbo himself and a few of the Laketown houses and the Master’s large dwelling. He also drew the view from one of the upstairs windows, which framed the solitary peak of the Lonely Mountain. Ori felt an odd feeling of homesickness at the sight. He had been born and raised in the Blue Mountains, but his mother – and later on, Dori – had told him stories of life there. He also worked on redoing his drawing of Erfaron, which had not come out exactly as he would have liked; the tall silent hunter had a very distinct facial expression when he was proud of a kill that Ori wanted to capture on paper. Ori found all the elves’ expressions fascinating. Most only lasted a fleeting moment before being replaced by a calm mask, so it was a challenge to remember them well enough to draw them later. When Bombur finally called everyone to table, the Company was a rather reduced lot, Ori realised. Nori had gone off Mahal knew where, all the elves were missing, Thorin and Dwalin had never come back down and Dori was keeping Balin company in the kitchen. The meal was as hearty as a dwarf could desire, and the Company went to bed with full bellies. This building represented their last chance of sleeping in proper beds before reaching the mountain and so they all turned in fairly early. The elves did not take one of the rooms, but returned to their small camp on the forest’s edge. The guards had changed, but the newcomers eyed the tall, lithe beings warily. Their unfortunate predecessors had embellished the threatening nature of both royals fiercely in an attempt to reduce their own culpability in disobeying the Master’s orders. The elves simply passed in silence, even if Faindirn twitched a sardonic smile in their direction.

 

###### notes:

[77] May your paths be green and the breeze behind you.  
[78] May you join your family and friends in the afterlife. I mourn your passing.  
[79] May Dínelloth, son of Iorthon, my husband, find peace in death.  
[80] Lamentation – literally “many voices” – of remembrance  
[81] The Hall of Fire – ie the hall in which you gather around the fire to tell stories and sing lays.  
[82] Evermind, aka simbelmynë  
[83] I thank you from my heart.  
[84] Child of Thranduil. Among the Sindar, -ion(Son of) would be used, but Legolas uses the Silvan way here.


	10. Frustrations and Plots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Advice is given, frustrations increase, and a friend is cautiously made. Thorin takes a stand and plans solidify.

The next morning, September 9th, Legolas found the Company huddled in the kitchen. The merry fire in the hearth was doing its best to combat the morning chill, but none of the dwarrow looked entirely pleased with their surroundings. He accepted the cup of tea thrust at him by Dori and exchanged a glance with Erfaron, who simply shrugged dismissively. Thorin nodded a greeting from his seat by Dwalin and a few of the others also grumbled a good morning in the direction of the elves.

“Will the Master see us today?” Thorin’s voice rumbled through the air, startling the half-asleep Ori who squeaked and fell off his chair. The dwarf with the peaks in his hair – Nori? – pulled him back onto the bench with a sigh.

“I don’t know. Considering our welcome last night, I think the only way we will see him is by going to him. Waiting for an invitation will garner us nothing, I reckon.” Legolas looked at Curulhénes, whose family of weavers had traded with the Men of Laketown before. She nodded, taking up the conversation.

“The Master does not trouble himself with the running of Laketown. He leaves most matters to Alfrid, whom you met last night. Getting past Alfrid is your first task in any dealing. Alfrid will spin your words if he is allowed to get between you and the Master, until you will seem to him either beggars or thieves. My father usually lets Magoldir get us past the steward. Alfrid is not a brave man and my brother is…” she paused, letting her green eyes roam over the display of bulging muscles and raw strength that was Dwalin. The dwarf tightened his fists, making his knuckledusters rattle ominously. The elleth smiled wryly, letting the dwarrow catch a glimpse of her mischievous spirit. “My brother spends most of his time practising with a sword, and his body reflects his pastime. Alfrid is easily intimidated by anyone appearing bigger or stronger than himself and has a tendency to hide behind his barbed tongue.” She smiled at the collective dwarrow – none of them could be described as scrawny, exactly, even the slender Nori had a wiry strength to him – as well as a truly terrifying grin and a large assortment of knives. “Once you have gained entrance to the Master’s chambers, give him no reason to doubt you. Do not let him think that he outranks you, even for a second. Utilize your most royal manners and no matter his words, stay calm and collected. The Master is a greedy man, and that might be to your advantage, if you can broach the topic of the riches he stands to gain at the completion of your Quest. He cares little for the plight of his people, but he wants to be seen as if they are his priority.” Curulhénes fell silent. The dwarrow studied her; this was the first time she had spoken at length since they had met her.

“Thank you for your insights, Curulhénes go-Nathril,” Legolas bowed. The elleth nodded and returned to her place by Erfaron. The hunter leaned against the wall, reaching out surreptitiously to catch her fingers when she reached his side. Apart from the quick glance she shot him, the red-haired Silvan showed no reaction.

“ _Le vilui, caun vuin, i 'ell nîn_.[85]” she said, subsiding into watchful silence once more, the way Elves seemed uniquely capable of, simply existing until they felt a need to interact with the world around them once more.

“Let’s go then princeling, before our beards grow so long we trip on them.” Thorin rumbled, before leading the Company out of their ‘Guest-House’.

* * *

Walking through the Laketown market after their first futile meeting with the Master, Thorin felt unsettled. They had managed to converse with the man, but he had proved as horrid as they had been warned, and although Curulhénes’ advice had been helpful, they had made no headway with their plans. Thorin shook his head angrily, dark locks tumbling down his back. Behind him, he could feel Dwalin’s steady presence, but apart from Balin and the ‘Oins, the Company had dispersed after the meeting. Balin’s voice brought him out of his annoyed thoughts as the white-haired dwarf came to a sudden halt in front of him.

“Girion?” The Company looked up as one. Balin was staring at a tall stranger, who seemed oblivious to the calling of his name. The man did look at lot like the Girion Thorin remembered, and he stepped forward, hand landing heavily on Balin’s shoulder. The man looked up, finally noticing the stares of the dwarrow and the elven prince.

“He is not Girion, Balin.” Thorin’s voice carried to the man, who stood up straight, staring at them with suspicion brimming in his brown eyes. “I believe he is the descendant, Bard, whom King Thranduil mentioned, old friend. Uncanny resemblance.” Deciding that they had drawn enough curious stares from the stallholders and other people, Thorin took a few steps towards the dark-haired man, dragging Balin along beside him.

“Good day.” The man’s tone was clipped, and his hands busy with the netting he was sorting through.

“Good day to you. You are Bard, descendant of Girion, Lord of Dale, are you not?” Thorin rumbled, keeping his voice polite while his eyes roamed this figure who – apart from eye colour – could have been Girion’s twin brother.

“I am Bard the bargeman.” The Man nodded.

“Ahh, you see, we knew your ancestor of old and for a moment I thought you were Girion himself, before I remembered that he perished in Dale. I am Balin, son of Fundin.” Balin spoke softly, giving him a friendly smile. The man remained aloof, but Balin’s easy conversation soon lured him in. The dwarf was a diplomat born, Thorin had always known, and often praised his advisor for his ability to talk to anyone in the world.

* * *

Inviting Bard and his family for dinner had been Balin’s idea. At first the man had been reluctant, distrustful of the strangers, but the old dwarf’s persuasiveness won out in the end. While Thorin had taken Ori along for the meeting with the Master, the other Ri’s had joined the Ur’s in the marketplace, haggling for supplies and other necessities. Aside from the leaf-wrapped parcels of lembas, they had not brought much food from Thranduil’s Halls and although Laketown mostly boasted barrels of fish and salted pork, they had managed to obtain enough meat for dinner. Bilbo was coping with the existence of the water under the floorboards by pretending it did not exist, and had managed to rouse himself and help Bombur and Dori in the kitchen. That evening, four humans joined 13 dwarrow, one hobbit and three elves under the sagging roof of the ‘Guest House’. The three children were a little cowed by the strange company at first, but Bofur’s mischievous nature and Nori’s juggling tricks broke the ice. By the time the meal was well underway, the miner had found his flute and was teaching Tilda and Sigrid a popular children’s song from the Blue Mountains. In return, the girls taught the dwarrow a song about the Kingdom of Erebor and Dale reborn.

 _The King beneath the mountains,_  
_The King of carven stone_  
_The Lord of silver fountains_  
_Shall come into his own!_  
_His crown shall be upholden,_  
_His harp shall be restrung,_  
_His halls shall echo golden_  
_To songs of yore re-sung._  
_The woods shall wave on mountains_  
_And grass beneath the sun;_  
_His wealth shall flow in fountains_  
_And the rivers golden run._  
_The streams shall run in gladness,_  
_The lakes shall shine and burn,_  
_and sorrow fail and sadness_  
_At the Mountain-king’s return![86]_

As the girls’ high voices echoed through the rooms, the dwarrow fell silent. They had known, of course, that the wealth of Laketown was as a pebble to a mountain compared to that of Dale before the dragon, but they had not truly realised that the Men had suffered as much as the dwarrow that fateful day. This song, set to the tune of a much older dwarrow song, hit them hard. Those who had been born in the Mountain, and who had seen the famous markets of Dale, could not help but feel slightly overwhelmed at the thought that the hopes and dreams of two peoples – three if the Elves counted – rested on their small Company’s success. Thorin felt both humbled and proud at the thought.

Bard frowned slightly. He wanted all the promises of the song to come true, but he was also apprehensive. Even if the dwarrow succeeded, there was no guarantee that their king would bring fortune and plenty to his neighbours. Life now was hard, yes, but it was familiar, and he could feed his children, which really was his only priority. He spent the meal in quiet contemplation of the thirteen Dwarrow and one Hobbit who milled around the house. They were a close-knit bunch, he thought, family in all but blood. The leader was a stern dwarf, but Bard could see the love in him when he looked at his nephews, and the respect and care he received from every single member of his Company. The old one, who had first spoken to him in the marketplace, was obviously an advisor of sorts, and could rarely be found far from Thorin’s side. The young princes, who scampered around like they did not have a care in the world, would occasionally glance towards their uncle, not for permission, but rather reassurance, Bard mused, that their uncle was within range. It spoke well of his character that his heirs looked to him for both protection and comfort. His youngest, Tilda, seemed entirely smitten with the hatted dwarf who was telling stories to his rapt audience. The small hobbit perched next to him, listening just as intently, and smiling indulgently at the scene. Sigrid on the other hand, was watching the strangers with barely concealed scepticism. She laughed at their jokes and answered their questions readily, but Bard sensed the wariness in his daughter. Sigrid would – like her father – form her own opinion, unswayed by promises of riches. After the meal, which had been filling, if a bit bland, in Bard’s opinion, pipes were brought out and the dwarrow crowded around the fire. Stories and snippets of songs flew back and forth, until the one who looked most like Thorin – Kíli, Bard suddenly remembered; the rhyming names did not make them easier to remember – turned large puppy eyes on his uncle. He and his blond brother had been talking with Sigrid, but Bard had not followed the topic.

“Uncle, can we teach them the song of the Lonely Mountain?” Every head in the room turned to the young archer, who blushed under scrutiny, but kept his eyes fixed on Thorin’s stern features. Even the elves seemed interested in the reaction of the Dwarf-king, Bard mused.

“Kíli.” The large bald dwarf with all the tattoos spoke slowly, rising from his seat by the hobbit and moving to stand behind his king. Somehow the name was a heavy weight in the sudden silence that had followed the younger Dwarf’s request. A single massive hand landed on the blue-clad shoulder of the King and squeezed. The dwarf then reached into his tunic and retrieved a simple flute. Around him, the dwarrow followed suit, bringing out various instruments in perfect silence. Thorin rose from his seat and walked slowly to the fire, staring into the flames. He nodded once. Kíli beamed, but did not speak. Bard was puzzled by the silence. Behind him, the deep voices of the dwarrow began humming. One by one, they all joined in, rumbling low in their throats. Those who had instruments were playing a solemn tune, almost a dirge. Then Thorin opened his mouth and sang.

 _Far over, the Misty Mountains cold_  
_To dungeons deep and caverns old_  
_We must away ere break of day_  
_To find our long-forgotten home._

 _Far over the Misty Mountains rise_  
_Leave us standing upon the height_  
_What was before we see once more_  
_Is our kingdom a distant light_

 _The pines were roaring upon the heights._  
_The winds were moaning in the nights_  
_The fire was red it flaming spread_  
_The trees like torches, blazed with light._

 _Fiery mountain beneath the moon_  
_The words unspoken, we'll be there soon_  
_For home a song that echoes on_  
_And all who find us will know the tune_

 _We lay under the Misty Mountains cold_  
_In slumbers deep, and dreams of gold_  
_We must awake, our lives to make_  
_And in the darkness a torch we hold_

 _From long ago when lanterns burned_  
_Until this day our hearts have yearned_  
_Her fate unknown, the Arkenstone_  
_What was stolen must be returned_

 _We must awake and make the day_  
_To find a song for heart and soul[87]_

 

The final lines were sung by every single dwarf. During the song, they had gathered in smaller clusters. Thorin’s arms were around his nephews and the scary bald one and the white-haired one were standing behind him. The little one with the journal was flanked by the creepy redhead – who was, Bard was sure, morally ambiguous at best – and the silver-haired one who had made him tea. The rotund cook had joined Bofur and the quiet one with the axe in his head and the last two were holding onto each other firmly. Along the walls, the elves were silent, glittering eyes taking in the scene. Next to Bofur, Bilbo’s cheeks glistened with tear tracks. Bard couldn’t help but feel a certain kinship with the Company in that moment. The loss of a true home was less biting for him, but the wound that merely twinged in his soul was barely scabbed over for these beings who had seen the dragon first-hand.

 _Oh, misty eye of the mountain below_  
_Keep careful watch of my brothers' souls_  
_And should the sky be filled with fire and smoke_  
_Keep watching over Durin's sons_

As Thorin sang the first verse, the instruments began sounding again, breaking the solemn silence. Dwalin sung the next verse, deep voice almost growling the words as his free hand grasped Thorin’s tightly.

 _If this is to end in fire_  
_Then we should all burn together_  
_Watch the flames climb higher into the night_  
_Calling out father, stand by and we will_  
_Watch the flames burn auburn on the mountainside_

For the third verse, they were joined by the old one with the hearing trumpet, who had a surprisingly pleasant singing voice despite his deafness, and his boisterous brother.

 _And if we should die tonight_  
_Then we should all die together_  
_Raise a glass of wine for the last time_  
_Calling out father, prepare as we will_  
_Watch the flames burn auburn on the mountainside_  
_Desolation comes upon the sky_

All the dwarrow joined in the chorus,

 _Now I see fire, inside the mountain_  
_I see fire, burning the trees_  
_And I see fire, hollowing souls_  
_I see fire, blood in the breeze_  
_And I hope that you'll remember me_

But the three Durins sang the next verse alone.

 _Oh, should my people fall_  
_Then surely I'll do the same_  
_Confined in mountain halls_  
_We got too close to the flame_  
_Calling out father hold fast and we will_  
_Watch the flames burn auburn on the mountainside_  
_Desolation comes upon the sky_

For the second chorus, the hobbit joined in, haltingly, though his voice was almost lost among the Elves’  lighter tones, which harmonised beautifully with the deep Dwarven voices.

 _Now I see fire, inside the mountain_  
_I see fire, burning the trees_  
_I see fire, hollowing souls_  
_I see fire, blood in the breeze_  
_And I hope that you'll remember me_

The last verse was Thorin’s alone, once more, the others providing a humming counterpoint for his strong voice.

 _And if the night is burning_  
_I will cover my eyes_  
_For if the dark returns then_  
_My brothers will die_  
_And as the sky's falling down_  
_It crashed into this lonely town_  
_And with that shadow upon the ground_  
_I hear my people screaming out[88]_

“Thank you, friend Thorin.” Legolas spoke softly, interrupting the solemn silence of the room a few minutes later. “Rhonith told Adar and I of that song, but she would not sing it. She called it a sacred prayer.” He began haltingly, but gained strength when the dwarf-king turned to watch him steadily, “I am glad to have heard it as the Dwarrow sing it.” The elven prince bowed. Thorin gave him a regal nod.

“Bofur,” Thorin rumbled quietly. The miner-cum-toymaker looked up expectantly at the calling of his name. Little Tilda had found herself a home on Bifur’s lap, and drifted off to sleep. “We have had enough sorrow for the night. Why don’t you give us another rendition of the 'Man in the Moon'? Perhaps our new Silvan friends will like it more than their Rivendell cousins.” Thorin smirked, eyeing the four elves playfully. The toymaker eagerly jumped onto the cleared table, as Dwalin began playing the jaunty tune. The rest of the dwarrow joined in quickly, dispelling the gloom of the previous songs.

 _Oh, there is an inn, there’s a merry old inn_  
_Beneath an old grey hill!_  
_And there they brew a beer so brown,_  
_The man in the moon himself came down,_  
_One night to drink his fill!_  
…

The song continued, growing more ridiculous with each verse, but it worked, and smiles could soon be seen on all faces. Their earlier solemnity remained present in the corners of their eyes, but the mood lifted. Kíli watched the elves. Erfaron was stoic and silent as always, but Legolas was smiling and Curulhénes’ eyes were laughing.

“Did you truly dance like that in Rivendell, Master Bofur?” Legolas chuckled, his eyes filled with bright mischief. “I imagine they did not enjoy your style. One day, you must come to one of our feasts and sing.” Bofur bowed. The impromptu party came to an end shortly after. Bard carried the sleeping Tilda and Sigrid followed with her yawning brother trailing behind.

* * *

The next morning was spent on another fruitless meeting with the Master. Thorin was more than frustrated by the man’s wilful blindness. They had managed to convince him that they really were who they claimed, and that their desire to take the mountain was genuine, but the Master stubbornly clung to the idea that the dragon was already dead. After all, he reasoned, if Smaug had not been seen for 60 years, then there was a good chance he had perished, and if that was the case, why should he let the Company send away all the Men and take the riches in the mountain for themselves? Thorin grumbled in low Khuzdul to Balin, wondering how anyone could think that something as big as Smaug could die without anyone having killed him. The fact that the dragon had not eaten for 60 years simply meant – in Thorin’s mind – that when it finally awoke, it would be famished. That thought caused him no little anxiety, but the Master dismissed his concerns as frivolous nonsense. Finally Thorin had to call their meeting to a close, simply to avoid falling victim to the temptation to run the man through with Orcrist. Only Balin’s steady presence and deceptively calm exterior let him keep a hold on his infamous temper. The last thing they needed was for the men to think them murderous lunatics. Thorin resolved to have a final meeting with the Master next day, but sent the members of the Company out surreptitiously to gauge the mood of the town. If he could convince Bard, whose respect in the town was nothing to scoff at, to help him, perhaps the bowman would be able to convince his neighbours to take up the Elvenking’s offer. The closer they got to the mountain the more vivid his memories of that day became. Looking at the already dilapidated town he remembered as a vibrant harbour and tradepost, he saw the hollow cheeks of underfed children, a sight that reminded him painfully of the way his people had looked when they finally made it to the Blue Mountains. Thorin already felt partially responsible for the plight of his people – Thrór had been _his_ grandfather, after all – and he did not relish the thought of bringing that same doom upon these Men. The two dwarrow left the Master’s house with disappointed miens, followed by the silent presence of the elven princeling. Outside the Master’s house, they were joined by Kíli, who had been spending the morning exploring the town. His vivacious spirit lifted their glum moods slightly, and Thorin once more felt thankful for the presence of his nephews on this Quest.

On their way back to the accommodations, they bumped into young Lady Sigrid, as Balin called her. The young woman greeted them politely, and introduced her companion, a plump woman with greying locks, as Anna the town healer and midwife. The old woman was obviously charmed by Balin’s polite kiss to her work-roughened hand. A brief gesture had Kíli scrambling to offer himself as their willing servant for the day, to the pleased laughter of the matron. Sigrid simply smiled and handed over the two wicker baskets she carried. The dwarf-king and his advisor continued through the market with the two women, Kíli slightly behind with the baskets.

“Mistress Sigrid. We have been told of a weapon by the name of a Black Arrow. Do you know what it is?” Thorin rumbled quietly. The young woman studied him calmly, before replying in the affirmative.

“Da told us stories about Lord Girion and how he shot the dragon with a Black Arrow and knocked off a scale. He used one of the ballistic crossbows mounted on the watchtowers of Dale.” Thorin nodded.

“Yes, I remember those. They were made by the dwarrow of Erebor. I created some of the parts myself, as a young apprentice.”

“You…you created?” the old woman spluttered, incredulous at the thought. “How old are you?” she gaped.

“I am 195 years old.” Thorin smirked, pointing to Kíli, “My nephew there is 77. Dwarrow do not age as Men do, and I assure you, madam, that I was indeed present when the wind-lances were made.” Thorin did not mention that his contribution to the famous weapons was limited to rivets and nails; being only fifteen at the time of their crafting, he had only just started his apprenticeship. Sigrid’s eyes flashed quickly across the elf, who simply gave her an inscrutable look.

“I was born in the fifth year of this age, which makes me 2936 years of the sun.” The midwife spluttered. The dwarrow tried to hide their grins, while Legolas simply looked on placidly. Amusement was twinkling deep in his blue eyes as he bowed to the two women and went on his way, showing off by bounding from building to building rather than take the walkways. The women followed his lithe moves with their eyes.

“If you want to know about Black Arrows, you’re probably better off asking Da. He is hunting today, but he should be back by nightfall.” Sigrid said, when the elf had disappeared behind the rooftops.

“Do convey my invitation for you and your family to join us for dinner, Lady Sigrid. Until our next meeting. Mistress Anna, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Giving in to his melodramatic streak – although he’d deny its existence vehemently if asked – Thorin swept the two women a courtly bow, before leaving the marketplace with Balin, who did him the favour of not giggling until they were out of range of the two women. Kíli looked forlornly after him, but rallied quickly, turning his considerable charm on the two women as he escorted them around the market, easily carrying their increasingly heavy baskets.

 

* * *

 

 

“How’d it go today?” Dwalin asked, when his Kurdel and his brother reappeared at the dubiously named ‘Guest-House’. “What did the Master say?” Dwalin had decided – for his own peace of mind – to leave wrangling the Master to Thorin and Balin, only taking part in intimidating Alfrid to let them pass.

“That… **Kakhuf inbarathrag!** ” Thorin growled. “ **Maznûn ‘ukhlatul zêsh kekhfar durh karur. Sigin'adadhu kasat gairurukhs!**[401]” Behind him, Balin simply shrugged, which told his younger brother than Thorin’s assessment was probably accurate, and compounded his own low opinion of the Man in question. “And that Alfrid!” Thorin continued angrily, “ **Kakhafu rukhs 'umalul sakh mi hu!** ” As Thorin continued ranting in Khuzdul, Balin wisely retreated to the kitchen. The King had not even noticed that the Elven Prince was still present, and finally Dwalin resorted to pulling Thorin by the arm into the room they had claimed for themselves and putting his mouth to more productive and pleasurable purposes. Sometimes it was better to let Thorin’s temper burn out, but at other times what the King really craved was a distraction from his dark thoughts, which Dwalin was happy to provide.

 

* * *

That night, the bargeman’s family once more joined the Company in their ‘Guest-House’. Dori had managed – by wrangling the considerable talents of one Bilbo Baggins, who vastly preferred to stay inside where he could pretend the house was on solid ground – to clean the kitchen and most of the ground floor of the house. The bedrooms had been aired, but the smell of damp still hung in the rooms. That night they enjoyed a supper of fried fish, which was probably the only foodstuff that could be called abundant in Laketown, and the conversation mostly concerned the Master and his unapologetic rudeness.

“What are you trying to gain from the Master? You do not seem to lack for supplies or weaponry.” Bard asked quietly after the meal. The Company, who had pulled out pipes and tobacco as well as Dori’s tea set, turned to him as one, but it was Balin who answered.

“We have arranged for King Thranduil to open his Halls to the people of Laketown. We want the Master to evacuate the town while we go to the Mountain,” he paused, considering his words, but continuing after the brief hesitation, “We seek to kill the dragon, but if he is roused, he will most likely attack Laketown. If that is the case, better you and your people are safe in Mirkwood than facing dragon-fire. We remember the firestorm that enveloped Dale, laddie. We do not wish to see it happen here too.”

“So many died that day. Men and Dwarrow both. We dwarrow are not blind to your suffering, for our friends in Dale lost their homes same as we.” Thorin continued, blowing a ring of smoke across the table. “We believe we can slay the Beast Under the Mountain, but against suitable payment once Erebor is reclaimed, Thranduil has agreed to house the Men of Laketown till spring if needed.”

“Ada’s hunters are already out in great numbers stocking up on meat for our guests,” interjected Legolas quietly, “but it will be for nought if we cannot convince the Men of Laketown to leave their homes, and the Master is proving more stubborn and disinclined to listen to reason than we had feared.”

Bard took a sip of tea. “Have you spoken to the people of the town? The Master could not go against all of us, if a majority wants to leave.” He looked at Legolas, “Is the Elvenking’s offer open only if we all come, or will he house any who decide to go?”

“We will see any Man to safety in our Halls who wish it. Even if that numbers only one.” Legolas’s voice was solemn and Bard nodded.

“You should speak to Anna.” Sigrid said quietly. “She is well-known and well-liked in Laketown. She is responsible for bringing most of its inhabitants into this world and the womenfolk would all listen to her. If you get the women on your side, their husbands will follow. They will not want to leave their women to travel through Mirkwood unescorted.” She held up a hand to stop Legolas’ indignant reply to the perceived slight against his people. “Elves do not count. When we marry, the men wow to protect their wife and any children she bears. You can trust that they will not want their honour in question by leaving their wife unprotected.” Her father nodded.

“Might we be able to prevail upon your kindness in securing us an appointment with this redoubtable woman,” Balin asked. Sigrid smiled at the old Dwarf and patted his hand.

“Of course. I am her apprentice. We met King Thorin in the marketplace earlier, and Kíli helped carry her baskets so she is disposed to like Dwarrow already. I told her Thorin was the King of Dwarrow and she told everyone we spoke to at the market that the Dwarf-King had bowed to her.”

“I could probably convince those who are not overly fond of the Master.” Bard mused, “But many would not listen to me for fear of what he would do.” The Bargeman and occasional smuggler was under no illusions as to the Master’s opinion of him, their mutual enmity nurtured for more than twenty years.

“Are there no other figures of authority in Laketown?” Balin asked. “Ones who might be persuaded to listen to us? It would be in their own best interest. We are going to the Mountain regardless, but…” he paused delicately. Bard sighed.

“Your best bet is probably Hereward. He is a merchant and he holds sway with many. I will take you to his house tomorrow and introduce you.”

Thorin nodded regally. He was grateful that Thranduil had thought to tell him about this man, who had seemed dour and unfriendly at their first meeting, but who might turn out to be their best chance for success with the people of Laketown.

“How are you going to kill the dragon?”

At this question, Thorin brought out Orcrist, explaining that the sword would be capable of cleaving dragonhide, even if they could not obtain a Black Arrow. His most desired tactic was still the usage of such an Arrow, but, as he told the assorted audience, the skill of creating them had been lost with Erebor, even for a Master Blacksmith like himself. He might be able to re-forge the steel used into other weapons, but creating a new Arrow would be impossible until they had taken the Mountain.

* * *

The next morning, September 11th, Thorin and Balin met first with the Laketown midwife. With them came Legolas, prepared to answer all questions about the accommodations his father offered. Anna was unsure at first, but when their plans had all been laid out, she had to agree that the sensible thing would be to take the Elves’ offer of hospitality. Balin quietly lamented the stubbornness of the men of the town, and Anna, with a glint in her eye that said she saw straight through their little scheme, promised to speak to those women whose husbands would take most persuasion. All in all, the three felt it was a productive meeting, and as they left munching on a freshly baked cookie each, it had been profitable too.

Bard’s merchant suggestion was more difficult. First they had to persuade him that no, they were _not_ thieves waiting for Laketown to empty before pillaging its stores. _Yes_ , Thorin _was_ in fact King, with a legitimate claim to the Carven Throne Under the Mountain. Thorin had to exert all his leftover patience from the meetings with the Master to keep a lid on his temper and still indulged in more than one daydream of bashing Hereward’s skull against the Master’s to see which cracked first. His people were mostly honest, like any other, and simply demanded fair wages for their skills. That was not thievery. In the end they had to resort to implied bribery – a skill Balin was as much a Master of as scrivening – by painting glorious pictures of life after the Mountain was retaken. Legolas even threw Thorin a wickedly amused look and hummed a few bars of the song Tilda had taught them. As Balin’s word-pictures flooded the merchant’s brain, his resistance began to crumble. When they left – with a fervent promise of aid – the man still saw rivers of gold flowing from the mountain and into his pockets. Afterwards, he went home and ordered his wife to start packing what they needed to take on an extended trip to Mirkwood.

* * *

That evening, the full Company walked through the town towards the Master’s house. The Dwarrow were dressed in armour polished to gleaming, looking like the fierce warriors they were. Dori had claimed – and Thorin had agreed – that they should all look as little like the travel-stained wanderers as possible. The theatrics would quiet those who might have otherwise called them brigands and vagabonds, and add to their authority. With that in mind, each dwarf, and Bilbo, had bathed and washed his clothes. Their hair gleamed in the torchlight and their braids had been redone with great skill. The simple braids they each favoured for trekking across Arda – aside from Nori, whose hair was an integral part of his image, and Dori, whose sense of propriety and class would never permit his mithril locks to be less than immaculately braided – had vanished, replaced with intricate styles that were fit for Court. They had spent hours working on each other, even Kíli, who never liked sitting still long enough to have his locks properly braided, had the appropriate braids woven into his dark hair. Dwalin had been busy with Thorin’s hair, his own beard simply brushed and oiled, and Dori had been given the task of wrangling the young Prince into submission, something Fíli had observed with great glee while Thorin’s hands redid his own braids. Kíli had – to everyone’s great surprise – submitted meekly to Dori’s machinations, and the result was obvious. Dori had managed to turn the archer’s hair into something that had probably not been seen since the last great Court Feast in Erebor, but the fine style seemed to lend the Prince a touch of solemnity and made him look far more grown-up than he ever had before. Thorin almost wished that Dís was with them, if only to ensure that she would believe him when he told her how Kíli refrained from shaking the plaits loose like he usually did when Dís or Dwalin had managed to tie him down long enough to work the proper braids into his long mane. The Men of Laketown did not know the meanings of the types and placements of braids and beads, but it did not matter. As the Company walked, the Men stared. A Dwarf who could command fierce warriors like Dwalin and Bifur demanded respect, and Thorin being a King only added to his general air of authority. With the unerring talent for picking up mischief afoot both children and mothers they passed on their way through the marketplace followed, pulling along neighbours and friends. Eventually most of the town was gathered outside the Master’s house. Those who had not already heard through gossip why the Dwarrow – “One of them is the _King!_ ” whispered an excited matron to her neighbour – were there. Thorin stepped up, knocking hard on the door. This time, they would not let the Master keep them in a dark and private meeting room, no, this time, Thorin meant to force the Master into a choice. By Balin and Nori’s estimation, at least seven tenths of the adult inhabitants were willing to go to Mirkwood with Legolas. Behind Thorin stood Dwalin, easily intimidating Alfrid when the loathsome man opened the door. Seeing the crowd, Alfrid whimpered lowly. He would not be able to turn away the dwarrow with an excuse, as he wanted, in front of the whole town. Instead, he scurried into the building, calling for the Master, who had been eating his lavish supper, and was not happy to be interrupted. At his signal, the doors were thrown open, revealing the balding Master in his hermine-lined cloak.

“What is happening here?” The Master asked, fat still glistening on his chin, though he had remembered to abandon the food on his plate rather than carry it with him like he had done the first time he had met with the Dwarrow. Dwalin had been unable to keep his eyes from the half-gnawed chicken thigh, and the numerous stains on the Master’s clothing had spoken clearly of his priorities. Tonight, he had managed not to spill his overabundance down his front, though Dwalin quietly wondered if that was not simply due to being interrupted too early by the arrival of the full Company.

“Dwarrow, Master. The Dwarf Thorin has come before you.” Alfrid simpered.

“Yes… the one who thinks we should abandon our town…”

“Not abandon. Evacuate temporarily.” Thorin ground out. They had explained this several times already.

“And leave our town free to pillage for any who come?” the Master scoffed.

“Take away what you wish. The Elves will see you all safely to Thranduil’s Halls. The Elvenking has granted you all sanctuary for as long as needed. If you want, you may burn the Bridge behind you to ensure the safety of whatever you leave behind. This is just a precaution, but we would be remiss not to take it.” The arguments were nothing new, on either side. Many people were nodding, trading glances with their husbands or wives. The Dwarf seemed in earnest, and he did not look like he needed their moey. He might not look quite as golden as a King ought, they felt, but he certainly had a kingly bearing and attitude in spades. A fair few were sniggering in the background when Alfrid shied away from Dwalin’s glare.

“You have no right, no right to enter that mountain and wake the dragon.” Alfrid wheedled, sticking his pointy face out from behind the Master’s bulk. Dwalin’s knuckledusters creaked when he clenched his fists.

“You know to whom you speak. He is Thorin, Son of Thraín, Son of Thrór!” Dwalin began angrily, but Thorin’s hand on his arm stopped the warrior before his vehemence became belligerence.

“I have the only right.” Thorin replied, with absolute certainty as he glared at the fat Master. “All that remains for you to decide,” Thorin turned, gazing upon the massive crowd, “Is whether you take this chance to visit the elves and stay safe until you can share in the wealth of our people! I will light the great forges of Erebor and gold will once more flow from the Mountain! This will once again be the centre of all trade in the North!” Thorin had been taught from childhood how to get a crowd behind his words and the skills his father and grandfather had begun teaching, and Balin had expounded upon continuously, did not fail him now. The people of Laketown roared as one, visions of brighter futures in all their minds. Behind the Returning King Under the Mountain, the Master had only one option.

“I say unto you, Lakemen! Let us prepare ourselves and our families for the journey to Mirkwood. These dwarrow will free us from the shadow of the great Fire-Beast and we will share in the wealth of the Mountain!” The crowd cheered. The Master flounced back into his house, leaving Alfrid to close the door with a sneer towards the Company. When it became clear that no more spectacles would be offered that night, most of the Men dispersed towards their homes.

Turning back to the Company and the four Elves of their guard, Thorin spoke softly, once more their friend and leader first, King second. “It seems we have managed one of the tasks for which we came here. Make sure you rest and stock up. We will leave in three days.”

“The Men will need more time to pack, Thorin.” Dori said. Thorin nodded.

“Yes, I expect they will take at least a week, but I want us to be gone beforehand. I would not have them accuse us once more of staying behind to steal from them.” The words left a sour taste in his mouth, but experience with the world of Men had taught him the value of caution. The members of the Company who had had the most dealings with Men nodded, it was simply a fact of their existence that Big Folk believed Dwarrow to be dishonest thieves to a man. As one, they set off towards their temporary abode.

###### notes:

[85] Thank you, beloved prince, it was my pleasure.  
[86] Song of the King under the Mountain from the Hobbit book. This song was changed to be ominous and prophetic in the film, but the original was quite hopeful.  
[87] David Donaldson/Steve Roche/David Long/Neil Finn/Janet Roddick 2012 The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey  
[88] Ed Sheeran 2013 The Hobbit: Desolation of Smaug

[401] …goat turd! Tight-fisted bag of troll shite. His grandfather was a goblin! ... The back side of an orc is a more pleasing sight than him.


	11. Weapons and Packing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting ready to leave Laketown behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I attempted to write Dworin smut for this chapter, but I'm not sure it suited the story. if you want to read it, it will be posted separately. I will post a link where the smut used to be.

The morning after their standoff with the Master, Bard showed up at the ‘Guest House’ a few hours after dawn. The dark-haired man carried an odd-looking arrow with a flared, twisted head. It was made of dark iron of a kind neither Fíli or Kíli, who opened the door, had seen. The young dwarrow stared at the peculiar metal, forgetting the man carrying it entirely in their puzzlement.

“Is Thorin here?” Bard cleared his throat and repeated himself twice. Fíli and Kíli finally seemed to realise that he was asking them a question. They shook their heads.

“Uncle went to the forge to tend to our equipment and offer his skills to those in need of them.” Fíli explained. At that, the bargeman left.

“Was that a Black Arrow, Fee?” Kíli wondered, excited and poised to run after Bard to the forge to see what Thorin would say. His brother nodded.

“I think so, Kee. Perhaps we will be able to help land the final blow against Smaug after all.” The Crown Prince answered. Behind them, Legolas smiled. He liked the young dwarrow – not that they’d know that for some time – and it would be good for them to be able to be of aid. They were young, and even more untested than he, the elf reckoned. He idly toyed with the idea of accompanying the Company to the Mountain, but his sense of duty and responsibility would not let him go against his father’s direct orders – no matter how much he might want to see Smaug die.

 

* * *

 

 

At the forge, Thorin had shed most of his armour in deference to the hot work. He had tied his hair back, braids cascading over muscular shoulders flexing with each blow of his hammer. A few links in his own chainmail had been broken during the Orc skirmish, and several of the others needed minor repairs too. The smith was only too happy to lend his forge to ‘Master King Oakenshield, Sir’ and in return, Thorin had promised to mend a few things and help him shoe the few horses kept by the lake-men. They would also need wheel reinforcements for their wagons and sundry other tasks that an experienced blacksmith could help with. Thorin’s skill far out-stripped the man’s own, and he had watched avidly, learning from even these simple tasks.

“May I interrupt?” the hammer landed twice more. Once the link was finished and secured, Thorin put the tool down and turned around. His eyes widened when he saw what Bard carried.

“A Black Arrow, Master Bard. I have not seen such a weapon since I was a mere dwarfling. We did not think any had made it out of Dale.”

“Only one. It has been an heirloom in my line.” The bargeman shrugged. In truth, titles and noble pasts mattered little to him as long as he had the means to put food on the table for his family. “I want you to take it. If you can, you may study how it was made, but turn it into weapons for your kin.” Bard did not need to say it for Thorin to understand the value of what he was being given. The Arrow represented not only Bard’s lineage but also any hope Laketown might have of killing the dragon if it ever left its mountain lair. He grasped the haft almost reverently. The deceptively simple design hid steel stronger than any other. These Arrows had been commissioned by the Lord of Dale directly, after word of Galadriel’s warning had trickled down from the mountain, though Thorin did not know that, having been barely old enough to learn his letters at the time of her visit. Bringing it to his practised eye, he noticed straight away that the iron had been of a type that made the metal much harder to melt. In the glory-days of Erebor, it was considered little more than a curiosity, for it was neither useful for armour- or weapons-making. It was too heavy compared to other types of steel and not as strong. For this Arrow, however, it had been folded in a technique only used for the finest weapons. It was a Masterpiece. To his eyes, the folds in the dark metal caught the light in little flashes of blue and he knew instantly why Master Hanar, whose mark had been etched behind the head, had chosen both this metal and this method. This iron, because of its resistance to heating at normal forge temperatures, would not melt when exposed to the heat of dragon-fire, something he had witnessed happening at the Gate. The innumerable folds strengthened the iron, making it capable of withstanding the force of impact without splintering. Thorin ran a finger along the shaft. Beside him Bard was watching with a bemused expression on his face, the Dwarf seemed entirely oblivious to his presence in favour of studying the weapon. The only question now was whether he would be able to heat that Man’s forge to the temperature required.

“I know how this was done.” Thorin looked up ten minutes later, surprised to see that Bard had been joined by the Laketown smith as well as his two nephews. All four were staring at him. “What?”

“You… I have never seen you study a metal like that,” Fíli explained. “What is it? I didn’t recognise the iron.”

“Master Hanar, your great grandfather, called it Cold Iron. It is a stubborn, unworkable metal for most. There were a few seams found in Erebor, but the material was mostly useless. It is difficult to heat, and once crafted into weapons had a tendency to bend or splinter. The miners named it revenge of the Petty-dwarves… but what Hanar has made here… Oh, it is beautiful, Fíli, come look.” He waved over the younger dwarrow, holding out the arrow proudly. The two men looked at each other, puzzled by the King’s almost giddy excitement. So very different from the stern King they had met before.

“Oh. He used it to make butterfly metal?” Fíli said, a little of his Uncle’s excitement bleeding into his features. The two younger dwarrow each took the arrow, holding it up to the light of the sun and turning it this way and that, exclaiming over the beauty of it. The Men watched, perplex. To them, it simply looked like dark grey iron, hardly anything to get excited about.

“Yes,” Thorin replied, happy that his lessons about metals had stuck in the head of his heir. Fíli was a decent blacksmith, like most Dwarrow, but his Heart-Craft was silver-smithing, like his grandmother, so the rougher trade of his Uncle did not hold his interest for long. Kíli had always been a leatherworker, and had even less interest in iron forging that his brother, but even he recognised the term. “Master Hanar was a genius.” He cast an eye on the two men, who looked clueless. “Master Bard, I do not have the materials to make more of these, but I can definitely do so once the Mountain is taken. I will see a supply delivered to you, just in case Smaug is not the last of his kin.” He bowed. Bard nodded, shaking his head as the three dwarrow immediately returned their attention to the Arrow and a conversation about how many weapons they could realistically craft from the metal at hand. The fact that Bard did not realise the significance of a promise of craft made by the King’s own hand did not faze Thorin.

“But if this is what you say, Uncle, how are we going to re-forge it?” Kíli wondered.

“We will need a properly hot forge. In Erebor, I would take it to the Great Forges, but here… I do not know the fuel the Men use, but it is less hot than my own forge in Ered Luin,” Thorin sighed. A minor debate broke out between the two smiths, but they could not see a solution. The Laketown forge was good enough for ordinary steel and even capable of heating proper dwarven steel, but the Cold Iron required more heat than the local coal could offer.

“Could you use the Elf-wood?” Kíli interrupted. The two smiths fell quiet. Thorin frowned, considering his nephew’s words.

 

* * *

  

That evening, spirits in the ‘Guest House’ were high. What Bilbo had forgotten in his fear over finding himself in a town built on _water_ of all things was that it was his birthday, and only Dori’s random conversation – Nori’s Nameday would be coming up a few weeks later, and Dori wondered if it would be possible to mark the day somehow – made him remember. Dwarrow did not celebrate the date of birth, being a rather superstitious lot, instead they celebrated the Nameday, when a pebble was presented to the wider world about three months after the birth and given his or her Outername. It was believed that after surviving three months of life, the pebble was ‘safe’ from the dangers of birth, and thus ready to be introduced to the world. The first three months were usually spent only with the closest family; parents and siblings, possibly very close cousins, but anyone else was a bringer of ‘bad luck’ and should be deterred from entering the house.

When Bilbo managed to understand the difference, and explain it to Dori, however, the mithril-haired Dwarf immediately set to work acquiring the ingredients for a celebratory dinner. Nori was sent out with strict orders to return with eggs and sugar, as well as asking Miss Sigrid if Dori might borrow her oven – there was no real oven in the ‘Guest House’ he lamented – and when the Thief returned, Dori set to work immediately. Wisdom, born of long experience with Dori in his life, made Nori pull the hapless Burglar out of the kitchen, hushing his feeble protests that he ‘hadn’t meant to make Master Dori go to all this trouble, only to understand their cultural differences better’ with a slight grin.

“How old are you, anyway, Master Burglar?” Nori asked curiously.

“Fifty,” the Hobbit replied, confused when his admission made the Thief pale.

“I suggest you don’t tell Dori that…” Nori whispered. Bilbo looked at him, not understanding the problem.

“Why not?”

“Well, Master Baggins, let’s just say that wee Ori is twice your age, and my brother thought _he_ was too young to go on the Quest,” Nori said with a conspiratorial wink. “I’m only looking out for your best interest.” Bilbo nodded slowly. He had no desire to be fussed over like he was a young stripling, rather than a Hobbit in his best middle age.

 

* * *

 

 

While Thorin spent the five days after they had cowed the Master and incited the Lakemen labouring in the forge – making their weapons had taken longer than he had wanted to stay in Laketown, but that could not be helped – the rest of the Company spent their days obtaining supplies from the Men. Most of their gold went towards non-perishable food, adding to the lembas they had received from Thranduil’s head baker, Maeassel, but Glóin, who was the most experienced in outfitting expeditions to far-off places and had been instrumental in financing the entire Quest, had authorised the purchase of five ponies for their supplies. Durin’s Day was still more than a month away, and the land around the Mountain did not offer anything in the way of edibles. Bombur and Bilbo were up to their elbows in flour, turning out batch after batch of cram, Dwarven travel rations. Although the elves had dispersed through the town, lending hands where needed, they also found time to help the Company. Curulhénes, who was a skilled weaver and seamstress before she took up a post in the guard, managed to re-stitch Bilbo’s trousers, which the Hobbit managed to rip on a nail sticking out of his bedroom doorjamb. The dwarrow were in and out most of the day, carrying back crates of dried sausages and bags of barley and oats they had either traded for or been paid for services rendered. Dwarrow were far stronger than the average Man, something the people of Laketown made good use of when it came to filling up their own carts. Few horses were kept in Laketown, so most families made do with hand-pulled carts – which Bifur, along with the town carpenter, had made many of during the days Thorin spent in the smithy – or only brought what they could carry, but some of the wealthier Men felt a need to bring more precious items along. That had led to several spats between Bard, who felt the space would be better used for the sick, elderly, or pregnant, and the Master. Although he had spoken of friendship to the Dwarrow, the Master was still mostly concerned with himself and his own comfort. He did not truly believe that the Company would accomplish what they set off to do, and he wanted to have options when the time came to run. Bringing valuables with them would allow him to resettle elsewhere, perhaps in Rohan or even Gondor.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, Thorin managed to create a new blade for Nori, which the thief immediately poisoned with his most potent brew; several arrowheads for Kíli, which were also poisoned, just in case, a short blade for Fíli and a new edge for one of Dwalin’s axes. The big warrior had grumbled about it, but Thorin had silenced him with a look and an oath that he would return Keeper to its original state as soon as possible. Knowing that his protests would not matter in the end, especially when Thorin gave him _that_ look, Dwalin surrendered the weapon with a growl. He could see the point of arming as many as possible of their crew with weapons that could harm a dragon more easily than their current ones, but Grasper and Keeper had been with him since before Azanulbizar. They had been part of Thorin’s courting gifts for him, even if they hadn’t officially been courting at the time, and he knew Thorin recognised their value and significance. The soft kiss he received when he relinquished the weapon that had rarely left his side for the past 140 years told him that Thorin was very aware of what he was asking. His love would not needlessly change such an important gift. Those axes had cut off the head of the orc who killed Frerin, when Thorin had been unable to do more than hold the younger prince while his life-blood stained the Dimrill Dale. Dwalin had stood there, steady as the mountain and fighting with a savage single-mindedness. In his hands, Grasper and Keeper lived up to their names, grasping his enemies closer and allowing him to keep his loved ones safe. His only desire was protecting his Kurdel, while he mourned the dwarf who had been a younger brother to Dwalin too. When Frerin’s blue eyes finally lost the spark of life, something in Thorin had snapped, and he had thrown himself into the worst of the fighting with nary a care for his own life. Dwalin had followed him, hacking at anyone who got close to Thorin’s back. When it was all over, Dwalin’s arms were the ones who held the shaking Prince as he wept for his losses. Somehow the axes had become a symbol to both of them; a reminder that as long as they stood back to back, they could conquer all that the world threw at them, together.

* * *

 

Although they were busy, the two Dwarven princes managed to spend a fair time in the company of the Prince of Mirkwood. The young dwarrow were curious, both about the Elf who would be their neighbour, but also the elleth who claimed to be their cousin. The journey from the Misty Mountains to Beorn’s and into Mirkwood had left them with questions. None of the Company had quite known what to feel about the revelation that the elleth they had grown to like was the daughter of the Elvenking they had despised for so long. Her words had turned their memories of events on their heads, and Thranduil’s calm reception of them – if not a particular warm welcome, then at least they had been treated civilly, and by some even more friendly – had only confused them further. Given that the two princes seemed to get along best with the Elf, they had been given several subtle – and a fair few unsubtle – hints that they should build ties with the Elven Princeling, to ensure that he could be trusted. Thorin trusted Thranduil far enough to believe the elf when he claimed that they could be allies and perhaps even friends, but he also knew that the Elvenking was nothing if not cunning, and the long life of the Eldar allowed him to think far further ahead than Thorin’s more mortal concerns. If they could get the support of both the Elvenking’s children, their position when it came to negotiations after the mountain was reclaimed would be much stronger. Balin had applauded his attempt at fostering diplomatic ties of friendship between his heirs and Thranduil’s, which was reason enough to go through with it in Thorin’s eyes. He trusted Balin to steer him right, and when he had ruminated on the issue he made sure that his nephews knew they had his full support in striking up a friendship with the elf. A few of the older dwarrow grumbled a little when they saw the three princes ambling around Laketown together, but none openly complained. Even if they did not see the reasons behind his decisions, they were loyal to Thorin and trusted his word.

 

* * *

 

When he was finished making the weapons, Thorin had enough metal left to craft a new tip for Bifur’s boar spear, leaving seven members of the Company with weapons fit to kill Smaug. Orcrist had already been deemed up to the task by the Elves, and although Bilbo’s little sword was small – and none of the dwarrow actually expected him to be able to do much, or any, damage against a dragon – it was made by the same hand as Orcrist. If Gandalf made it back from wherever he had gone, _Glamdring_ would be a great help as well, but the Company would not rely on the presence of the wizard’s magic _or_ his sword, so their planning had not included him.

* * *

 

The journey from Laketown to the Halls of Thranduil would be slow, 46 miles as the crow flies translated into quite a bit more when you had to walk on foot, but it would be impossible to send the Men of Laketown up the river. They would need wagons for their weakest members as well as most of their supplies, and although several hunter groups had volunteered to meet them at the forest’s edge to help carry provisions, they would take at least a week to reach the Halls. After that it would be a waiting game. The preparations had already been well under-way when the Company left Mirkwood; hunting groups had been dispatched as soon as the offer of housing the Lakemen was made, and all available hands were used to aid the cooks in curing and smoking the meat. Other Elves were foraging all the bounties their beloved forest could offer. In truth, it was not unlike preparing for a siege. Winter was fast approaching, and even in the best-case scenario they would be keeping a whole town fed for at least a fortnight, though it would be more likely to be a month or more.

 

Faindirn was a fun-loving elf, but he prided himself that he could be trusted to fulfil the duties given to him. The flighty Elf, who flirted with everyone he met, might annoy his commander on a daily basis – and never more than when he prodded fun at Legolas by flirting with an oblivious Rhonith – but Faindirn’s eyes were among the sharpest in the realm, and that was why he had been put in charge of the first group of refugees. Faindirn and Erfaron, who had elected to return to the forest as quickly as possible to help with the hunting, had left early in the morning of September 16th, with the largest group of Lakemen. Their party mostly consisted of elderly folk, though there were a fair few able-bodied men and women among them. These were the people who had both had the least to pack and the most enthusiasm for leaving. Those left behind were packing frantically, trying to ensure they brought all they would need in Mirkwood. Once Faindirn’s group made it to the forest, they sent back more elves to help with carrying provisions. Thranduil had not been joking when he told Legolas to ensure the Men brought as much food as they could carry. Every single person was loaded with bags. The few wagons they had managed to make during the three previous days had been stuffed full of heavy grain.

 

A mule pulled the cart belonging to the midwife, who had ensured that the most pregnant women of Laketown were in this first group along with their families. She might not have the knowledge of the Elves, Anna mused, but if something happened, at least she would be a familiar face. She looked worriedly at the furrier’s wife. Willa was round as a ball, and looked ready to give birth at any moment. Ceadda had paid good coin for a wagon for his wife, who was carrying their first child – or rather, children, Anna had told them – but he had not obtained a beast to pull it, so the task fell to his grown son from a previous marriage. The furrier’s first wife had died giving birth to his son, Beorn, and Anna was determined to get Willa safely through the birth of her twins. Around Willa they had stacked as many pelts and furs as they had left from the previous winter as well as the summer hunting. Ceadda, who hailed from Rohan originally, was nothing if not practical, and had decided that, once they had reached the Elvenking, he would attempt to sell most of the pelts, but meanwhile they would serve to protect his wife and their unborn children. Willa looked quite comfortable with the morning chill, smiling and waving at her neighbours. A few of the smallest children were offered rides on other people’s carts and wagons, saving their overburdened parents from having to carry the babes. Around the group of refugees, children were running. They treated the walk as a grand adventure, but their parents knew that the boisterous joy would not last, and they were not looking forward to trying to keep track of the small ones between the dark trees of Mirkwood.

 

When they reached the forest’s edge, Elves melted out of the trees. One dark-haired ellon called a greeting to Erfaron, who waved back. The Men took a short break, while the Elves conferred with Faindirn, figuring out who needed the most help. Eventually they spread out around the refugees and began herding them along the river. The small children, who had run around so carefree since they left Laketown, were at first subdued by awe at these tall, graceful creatures. They had only caught glimpses of Elves before, the four who had come with the Dwarf King had stayed mostly out of sight, flitting from place to place and ensuring that all inhabitants of Laketown were as prepared as they could make them. These Elves, however, while seemingly friendly, were even less approachable and it took ours before a brave little boy dared to ask the Elf next to his family what his name was. The child’s innocent voice seemed to break the barrier and soon the Elves were inundated with curious children. Their parents tried in vain to corral their offspring, but in truth the effort was mostly for show. Even those who had lived in Laketown for generations had rarely seen Elves and were just as curious as their children. The Men were slightly surprised at the willingness of their guides when it came to answering childish enquiries, but as the days went on, they stopped being quite so afraid of their elusive forest neighbours and some even began asking questions of their own. It quickly became clear that Elves were extremely fond of children – even if they stayed aloof in conversations with adults – and the children loved them in return with an astonishing ease.

 

* * *

  

The evening of the departure of the first group of refugees saw a small party in the ‘Guest-House’. Thorin’s elated report of his progress with their Black Arrow weapons had led to a high-spirited feeling of fervent hope running through the Company. The two remaining Elves were swept up in the tide of joy. The dwarrow were so close to their goal now, and their giddiness was infectious. Fíli, Kíli, and Ori were trying to teach Curulhénes how to quaff ale properly when Legolas made his escape from the merriment. The lithe ellon easily climbed through the house, ducking out of Nori’s always-open window and swinging himself onto the roof. Leaning back on his elbows, the Elven Prince stared wistfully up at the stars. A throat being harshly cleared interrupted him before he could sink into reverie, startling the Elf slightly.

“Good night for stargazing, elf.” The low rumble of the one he still privately called Scary Dwarf rumbled. “Something on your mind?” Dwalin continued, huffing quietly on his pipe.

“Longing, perhaps.” The darkness and the peace of the silent night made Legolas bold enough to speak his mind to the Dwarf. Dwalin nodded.

“For the stars?” Dwalin, whose eyes were as keen in semi-darkness as those of all his race, noticed the way the ellon’s mouth twisted up wryly in the corners. “Or for something a little more…”he paused, taking a small bit of satisfaction in the sight of the princeling’s stiffening shoulders, “…earthy?” he gave a quiet chuckle.

“A bit of both, Master Dwarf. Memories, perhaps.” Legolas sighed. His eyes swept across the wide expanse of the shimmering waves that made up the surface of the Long Lake and his head turned in the direction of Mirkwood. "I want to thank you…” he began, haltingly. Dwalin simply continued smoking quietly as he waited for the prince to gather his thoughts. “You have been kind to Rhonith. I am- We are grateful.” He amended, shooting a quick glance at the impassive Dwarf who seemed content to ignore his slip. Legolas continued, emboldened by the warrior’s tacit permission of conversation. “You have not been in the forges with Thorin Oakenshield?”

“Thorin’s the blacksmith. I am a capable hand in a forge, most dwarrow are, but to try to modify something as fine as the craft of Master Hanar? No, that is beyond me. My Heart-Craft is engraving, like my Amad. I am also quite good at carving runes in stone.”

“Master Hanar?” Legolas repeated the name with a sense of wonder. No one had told him that it was Master Hanar who had made the Black Arrows. “Master Hanar, who was the husband of Lady Vrís and father of Lothig?” Legolas asked quietly, wondering if it was the same Hanar. If so, it meant that his friend had been the one to take steps to defend against the destruction Galadriel had foretold and Thrór had ignored. Somehow it made Legolas happy to think that Hanar might yet have his revenge on the beast who claimed his wife’s and his own life. As soon as Rhonith had told them that a dragon was attacking Erebor, Legolas had known that the chances of Vrís and Hanar making it out of the Lonely Mountain alive were small enough to be insignificant. Even if they were together at home, Hanar would have had to carry Vrís all the way to the Front Gates.

“The Dwarf who made the Black Arrows. Master of the Blacksmith’s Guild in Erebor and one of our finest smiths. He taught Thorin most of his skills in a forge.” Dwalin clarified, blowing a smoke ring. He hummed thoughtfully, “Yes. I forgot you knew him. And Frís, of course.”

“I was the one who namedher Lothig. My little flower,” Legolas sighed, before surprising Dwalin once more, Sindarin words spilling from his lips, “ _Ai, Aulë, de meriathol. Govano i nothrim în adh i mellyn în mi Mannos, Lothig_.”It seemed a wholly more private grief than Dwalin thought he should have been present for, and he once more wondered what exactly Frís had done to endear herself so thoroughly to the Elvenking and his son, who – by all accounts – cared little for Dwarrow. The look on the princeling’s face now, however, was definitely fond remembrance.

“What are you saying?” Dwalin asked quietly, confused by the sudden openness of the Elf beside him.

“Aulë – your Maker – protect her. May you join your family and friends in the afterlife, my Flower. I don’t know the words your kin use to speed a soul on its journey to the Halls of Mandos, Master Dwalin, but these are ours.” Legolas translated. “It is custom to say it each time you speak of the dead for the first year since their passing. We did not get word of her death until now, but I’m sure Lothig would not begrudge us our delay in wishing her a speedy journey to the Halls of Waiting.” Dwalin still looked a little lost, and Legolas suddenly realised that Rhonith had never told them _how_ she came to know Frís. He chuckled lightly, “When she was a very small dwarfling, Lothig was lost in Mirkwood. Her parents were part of a caravan, which was ambushed by the first kin of the spiders which still plague my beautiful home, turning it dark and sick with their filth,” Legolas’ eyes burned with anger, once more turned towards the boughs of Mirkwood. “They believed their pebble had perished in the forest when they could not find her. One of my father’s patrols found her, lost and crying, and brought her back to our Halls. She would not stop wailing, she would not accept food, and the elleth who had found her was at her wits end when Rhonith arrived for a visit. She was injured from a fight with a different spider, but she demanded the child be given to her, though she had the use of only one arm at the time.She... she told me that dwarrow are born mostly blind, and the pebble was too young to trust feeding by anyone who did not sound or smell like a Dwarf. I spent hours dribbling milk down Rhonith’s… chest for Lothig to suckle while she was murmuring Khuzdul lullabies.” Dwalin was sure he would never see such a sight again: the aloof princeling was actually blushing. If not for the look on his face, the absolute sincerity, the longing, Dwalin would have called it a fib. “Ada received a raven from King Thrór, asking us to keep an eye out for her bones… we had not known where she came from, her clothing all but gone when she was found and no distinctive marks on her but bruises from falling.” The memory made his eyes harden, though they softened in fond remembrance once more when he continued, “I sent our fastest messenger to Erebor to fetch Lothig’s parents, but for a little more than a week, Lothig was my responsibility. Rhonith was weakened by the spider’s toxin…” he chuckled ruefully, “I am afraid my first meeting with your Master Hanar was not that pleasant. He burst into my rooms in the middle of feeding the pebble… I drew my sword at him, thinking we were under attack.” He admitted sheepishly. Dwalin chuckled. Pulling the twin blades from their scabbards at his sides, Legolas flipped them in mid-air before handing the hilt towards Dwalin. “Hanar wanted to repay us for our kindness, and Rhonith made us demand a favour, though it is against Elven customs to demand repayment for saving a child’s life. Ada, as the Head of our family, demanded that Hanar and his wife follow one of our traditions and accept Rhonith as a sister to their child for her deed. Hanar made me these, to replace the sword I had drawn on Rhonith’s kinsmen. Even if I drew it in defence of an innocent, I did not feel right using the blade after that day. They have served me well.” He finished. Dwalin turned over the light swords. He had seen the prince fight with them, and Hanar had certainly been a master of his craft. He handed the swords back silently.

“I’d never heard that Frís knew Elves before this journey, though we knew she got her parcels from someone who marked them with a leaf,” he rumbled, an idle thought of Thorin’s possible reaction making him grimace slightly. They owed the Elves a debt of gratitude if nothing else, he knew.

“If it was the blackberry preserves, it was from myself and Ada. Those pots were marked with our maple leaf sigil. Rhonith’s Lothlórien orchards are made up of orange and apple trees, though I know she traded some of her fruit for the spices she sent to Lothig. The tea was also from the Woodland Realm, as I am afraid we got her addicted to the taste of it during her frequent visits.”

“Yes, we have all missed her tea. Somehow, none of us could figure out how to brew it right. I think we should be glad to learn,” Dwalin said drily. Legolas laughed softly.

“I shall see that a supply is set aside for you, Master Dwalin, and I’ll be happy to teach you the proper way to brew it too. I had no idea it was so popular to drink tea among your kind.”

“It isn’t, really, small beer is more widespread, but Frís would always serve a cup after dinner, to round out the day, and I suppose we got so used to it that the lack of it has been felt keenly. We’ve still got a half bag of it left in the kitchen. After the twentieth failed pot, we gave up on brewing it.” He guffawed suddenly, “Heh! Thrór’s heir drinking elf-tea with great pleasure… the old dwarf would have conniptions if he knew.” Dwalin continued chuckling at the thought of Thrór’s outrage, and the clear laugh of Legolas joined him a few moments after.

“Hanar claimed the visits were the debt he had to pay for her life, so the King could not argue. Rhonith can pass for a Dwarf, and she would visit once or twice a year, but every three years, the three dwarrow would spend a few weeks in our forest. King Thrór’s approval of Lothig’s visits steadily declined over the years, but I had not realised how much he despised my kind, if what you say is true. I will enjoy teaching you how to brew our tea even more for the thought that it would annoy Thrór so. Hanar would approve too, he was always up for a good prank.” He grinned gleefully. Dwalin reeled slightly, trying to match the Dwarf he had known, though he mostly remembered some of his more mad inventions like the Scroll-Roller, which he had made for the Library and which almost caused a fire, to Legolas’ Master Hanar. “Frís, as well as Master Hanar and Lady Vrís were named Elvellon by Ada. For their sake – and their sake alone – did we not turn our backs on Thrór’s people. Hanar and Vrís may not have made it out of Erebor,” he sighed, “But they are remembered in the hearts of our people. I grieved to learn of their passing, as I now grieve for their daughter.” He nodded to Dwalin, making to leave, but was pulled back by the warrior’s strong hand on his wrist.

“Thank you.” When the elf did not seem to understand, Dwalin explained. “If you had not saved her, I would not now have my Thorin. I will remember your kindness.” He tilted his head, studying the elf. “I am grateful. If you hold our debt repaid, I will not mention it again, but know that we will honour the bargain struck.”

“Your Thorin?” Legolas was puzzled. “Bargain?”

“Your Ada made a bargain that Rhonith would be Frís’ sister, no?” Dwalin sighed, “That makes her as good as a blood relative in the eyes of our laws. Which means she is Thorin’s aunt by tradition. In truth, this makes her an aunt or cousin to most of the Company,” he mumbled, “I’d have to ask Balin, but I’m sure there is a ceremony to go with claiming the kinship. She was already our cousin through the blood of Durin, but being adopted into Hanar’s line would grant her status of a Noble Lady of Erebor…it’s possible she could claim some inheritance from his estate too, though I’d have to check the laws as well as his will to find out.” he mused. “Yes, my Thorin will have to be told the story. As King, and Head of Durin’s Folk, he will be the one claiming her part of the family when we reach Erebor…”

Legolas could only stare. This was a torrent of words compared to his previous interactions with Dwalin, which had consisted of the big warrior grunting or growling incomprehensible words at the other dwarrow and being obeyed with alacrity. In truth, he had thought the brawny Dwarf among the less clever of the Company, but the night’s conversation had put those thoughts firmly to rest. Dwalin was clearly far smarter than he first appeared. “She always loved visiting Erebor. I’m sure she’d be glad to feel so welcomed. She had her own rooms in Hanar’s house; I remember visiting it once, before Thrór banned my people from entering his Mountain. Wait, your Thorin?” he repeated. Beside him, Dwalin fidgeted slightly, trying to decide how to explain the concept to someone not a Dwarf.

“Aye, my Thorin. My Heart of Hearts. My Heart-Song, my One.”

“Thorin is your husband?” the elf wondered as he made himself comfortable once more on the cool wooden shingles. Dwalin couldn’t help a slight chuckle; that expression on the elf’s face was reminiscent of the look on any dwarfling’s face when they wanted to be told a good story. “But he is the King. Kings must have sons…” Legolas blushed fiercely, gaping at Dwalin as he exclaimed, “You’re a Lady Dwarf!?” His expression was so incredulous that Dwalin could not help exploding in laughter.

“Ahh, no, lad. I’m male through and through. So is Thorin, before you ask. Fíli is heir to the throne, the son of Thorin’s sister as he will not have children of his own.” Did Elves not have those who loved their own sex? Legolas didn’t seem to stumble on that part of the topic, however, seemingly accepting Thorin’s Oneness with Dwalin as a valid reason for Fíli being the heir. “Dwarrow have few females born, only one in three pebbles is a girl. To us, couples can be any combination of sexes and gender. After all, Mahal made us to be perfect for our One, who are we to argue if that person is also of our sex?”

The elf nodded, “Yes, Rhonith explained that you have few females when she tried to make Ada understand why it was so important that he demand a high price from Hanar for his daughter’s life. That it was a question of honour, somehow, but I’m afraid we simply humoured them both without truly understanding the underlying reasons. So you are married to Thorin? Are there other married dwarrow with you? The shouty red-haired one who has a tendency to become purple,” here Dwalin guffawed at the rather apt description of Glóin in a fine temper, “has a wife and child,” Legolas paused, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Dwalin, “of whom we have heard more than enough during our journeys with you,” he continued dryly, smiling at Dwalin’s bemused chuckle.

“Ahh, lad, Glóin is a proud father indeed. His wife near enough did not make it through the birth and Gimli is a fine young Dwarf who will be a great warrior in time, true. No, Thorin is not married to me… not yet.” He sighed, staring towards Erebor, shrouded in misty gloom and darkness.

“He does not love you?” Legolas looked stricken with sorrow, and Dwalin hastened to reassure him.

“No, no. Mahal wept, lad, what would give you that idea? Thorin is mine, and I am just as much his. We’re only unmarried because Thorin is too stubborn to give up on Erebor. A king must marry in his own Halls, and though our settlement is known as Thorin’s Halls, it is not our true Halls. Thorin is a stubborn old romantic. We will wed in Erebor or not at all. We have been One for more than a century now, dinnae fash yerself.”

“You are very patient.” Legolas mused, “I thought dwarrow were not in general willing to wait that long to fuse their passions.” The redness in his ears deepened. “I suppose it is romantic to wait until he has regained his throne, but it must be difficult. Or do you not feel physical desire as the other races do?”

Dwalin was flabbergasted, trying to wrap his brain around exactly what he was being asked. A long-forgotten lesson on the customs of elves surfaced. His inner Balin cheered at the knowledge that he had managed to retain such a useless – especially to younger Dwalin, but not much more useful to current Dwalin – concept. “No, we feel physical desire. But indulging in the pleasure of the flesh is not enough to consider a couple wed. Not all who are lovers are also One, though it is rare that the bond is not at least a little romantic. Not all of us are lucky enough to find our One, and many simply fall in love and marry like those of other races. My brother was very young when he found his, only twenty-five, but they both knew it the moment they met. That is exceedingly rare. Most couples find a sense of well-being in the presence of their One, though it might not be distinguishable from being in love, and as their bond deepens, so do their love until the realisation happens to one or the other. A Dwarf will usually know whether they have a One somewhere, however, feeling hints of the Longing as they grow or dreaming of the other. Dwarrow will usually have several partners through their lives until they either find their One, marry whoever they love or become Craft-Wed,” he explained, watching the redness deepen further before the elf suddenly paled. A sound from below their rooftop perch announced Thorin’s entrance to their room and the elf was gone before Dwalin could ask what had put that miserable look on his face. Shaking his head, he too made his way down from the roof, happy to spend the night in Thorin’s arms…after he’d told his beloved a story about his departed Amad.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’ve found more of your grandfather’s work here in Laketown,” Dwalin began, quietly divesting Thorin of his tunic and rubbing his large hands over his Kurdel’s tense shoulders.

“Really?” Thorin said, interested despite his tiredness. It had been a while since he had spent a full day in a forge and the dwarf had relished the chance to use his muscles that way again, even if it led to his current stiffness. Dwalin was the best cure for such stiffness as usual, though his hands roaming Thorin’s skin always led to a certain different kind of stiffness, Thorin chuckled to himself. He pressed a playful kiss against the knuckles of the hand that was massaging his right shoulder, looking up at Dwalin with a sappy smile he’d never dare wear in front of his nephews.

“Aye,” Dwalin rumbled softly, bending to claim Thorin’s mouth in a kiss before continuing, “Those swords the elf-prince carries were made by Hanar.”

“And how would my grandfather’s work end up in the hands of a prince of Elves?” Thorin hissed a moan as Dwalin’s strong fingers found another stubborn knot. “And why would he deign to use them? I did not think Elves would know the value of such a craft.”

“He does not realise the significance of Hanar’s status, Kurdelê. To Legolas, the swords are a gift from a friend. He has treasured and used them for 300 years.” Dwalin replied, turning his attention back to Thorin’s tense frame as he told the story of Frís’ Mirkwood adventure. He made sure to distract him with kisses at certain points of the story, until Thorin was once more pliant under his rough fingers.

“It seems we have more reason than I thought to trust Thranduil’s goodwill, **Halwmugrê**[90], though it explains why he would throw such a celebration in her honour. I wonder why amad never told us this story… actually, no, I don’t. Thrór would have forbidden it,” a dark look passed over his face at the thought. Dwalin kissed it away. “In the morning, I will ask Balin to work out the claiming ceremony,” Thorin sighed, sinking down onto the bed and pulling Dwalin down atop him by twining his fingers into the warrior’s beard. Dwalin went happily, rewarding his lover with a kiss when Thorin’s hands wandered down his body to squeeze his backside.[The Smuts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9402335)

The rest of the night passed in lustful kisses and happy groans of pleasure, and Dwalin forgot to mention the slight suspicions that had been all but confirmed in his mind when he watched Legolas talk about Rhonith.

 

* * *

 

 

The Company had diplomatically declined – Balin had handled that – the use of boats for their journey towards the Mountain that the Master had tried to foist upon them as an obvious show of his goodwill. They had all seen Bilbo’s fear of water, and although dwarrow were capable of swimming and had no Hobbit-like fear of boats, it was hardly their preferred mode of transportation either and so they had decided to take the land route. Their journey on foot would be longer, but they had plenty of time before Durin’s Day was upon them. Glóin had been sent out to obtain as many ponies as he could, but with the mass exodus of Lakemen, beasts of burden were hard to come by and he could only get five. Those five were laden with as many supplies as possible: all the food Bilbo and Bombur had made; a few barrels of decent ale – in his heart of hearts, Glóin was only barely optimistic about gaining access to the Mountain, to say nothing of killing Smaug, but he would not be the reason they had nothing to celebrate with once the wyrm was dead – as well as assorted miscellany; ropes, a shovel, some firewood, medical supplies, pipe weed, and even some thick candles. The latter purchase had sprung from Ori’s fear that Bilbo would not be able to see when he entered the Mountain. After all, even though the Dwarven diaspora still called Erebor home, no Dwarf had lived under the Mountain in 170 years and any torches would be long since rotted. It would be terrible if Smaug awoke because their Burglar stumbled blindly into a wall, for example, Ori said, making the rest of the dwarrow nod thoughtfully. In the end, the five ponies were loaded almost as heavily as those who were going to take refuge in Thranduil’s Halls. On top of the things they had packed onto the ponies, each dwarf carried his own pack. These were filled with a change of clothes each, a comb, whetstones and whatever extra food they could scrounge up. A few had even sewn travel rations into their clothes, like Nori had shown the princes. Their adventure so far had taught them to keep their most valuable items on their person at all times, simply because of the ease with which vital supplies could be lost. Scrounging the stores and pantries of Rivendell had replenished their meagre supplies once, after the ponies had bolted with what had been left in their saddlebags, and although Beorn’s generosity had been a staggering kindness, it had also hammered the point home that packs might be lost just as quickly as ponies. Simply looking toward Erebor from the shore of the Long Lake had let them see the desolate remnants of Smaug’s rage. No plants grew between Laketown and Erebor, and no animals called the dormant plains home. Even in the best-case scenario, they would need food for more than a month before they even made it to the part of the journey that involved killing the dragon, and then they would need to survive inside the Mountain until Lord Dáin could arrive from the Iron Hills with Dwarrow to help with the rebuilding.

Around the Company, the Men of Laketown were busy preparing for their own departure. The second group of Men would leave the Long Lake the day after the Dwarrow, leaving behind only the bare bones of their stilt town. After long debate, it had been decided to take Thorin’s suggestion, and remove the bridge behind them. Life on the Long Lake may be difficult and its hardships and heavy taxes made for a meagre reward, but it was still all they had. As unlikely as it was that someone would come by and take over a whole empty town, removing the bridge still made some of the wealthier merchants feel slightly more secure in leaving behind valuable goods.

Bard, along with a few of the other fishermen, had boats capable of reaching the edge of the forest, where the Forest River widened enough to accept flat-bottomed boats. These vessels were loaded with whatever supplies had not already been carted off, and would be floated to the Forest, where the wagons that Thranduil usually sent when his wine barrels were delivered would meet the boats, carting the rest of their supplies to the Elvenking’s Halls. The Forest River was too narrow and rapid for anything but empty barrels to survive a trip down the white waters, but a small track had been made alongside the fast-flowing currents to enable trade in either direction. The last few miles were too steep for wagons, but from there the Elves usually loaded their goods onto the backs of massive elk or used sleds for transport. Curulhénes had pledged the support of her family’s wagons, and Legolas had given Faindirn a message for Thranduil to send out as many helpers as could be spared to move the goods from the fully-loaded barges.

 

 

* * *

###### notes:

 

[90] My honeybear.


	12. Ancient Foes and Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil's schemes may have unforeseen consequences, Darkness stirs among ancient stone and worrying plans emerge.

His daughter-by-heart might have forgiven him for forcing her to face the truth of her fears, the Elvenking mused, but he could see her struggle with being left behind. He knew she was too honourable to sneak off when she had given her word to stay, but she was chafing against the invisible prison walls she felt had closed around her. Thranduil did not know how to make her feel better, how to release her from the prison of her own mind. He worried, watching her walk through his Halls, disinterested in the preparations going on around her. When Galadriel called him through the power of her mind in a dream, the Lady of Light’s message almost made him smile at her in relief. Not willing to give her the satisfaction of knowing that his heart had not entirely petrified, however, he maintained his stoic visage and simply answered her query with blankness. The Istar Mithrandir had not entered his Realm with the Company, as far as he knew, instead heading to the High Fells of Rhudaur to seek out the tomb of the Witch-King of Angmar.

When he woke, he had a fully formed plan in mind already. Rhonith could not go to the Mountain, and he was loath to send her where he was thinking, but she would be in the company of her cousin and the redoubtable Marshwardens would keep her safe, he hoped. Mind made up, he turned his considerable cunning to the task of making her think it was her own idea to go. It wouldn’t do to let his daughter realise that he was manipulating her; even if it was for her own good, her wrath was something to be feared invoking. Thranduil smirked to himself, before smoothing his face once more, as he opened the door to the Dining Hall where Rhonith awaited him for breaking their fast.

“ _Mê g’ovannen, Sellig,_ ” he smiled, taking his seat across from her and pouring a glass of the sweet blackberry cordial he preferred for breakfast. His morning oats were sweetened with maple syrup, and one of Maeassel’s summer berry tarts finished off the meal nicely. Rhonith nodded, giving him a sweet smile even though he could see worry straining her eyes. “ _I bring you news this morning from your cousin Lady Galadriel_ ,” he continued, blithely ignoring her poorly disguised surprise. “It appears that she has lost touch with Mithrandir after his parting from Thorin’s Company, and she wondered if he had entered my Realm.”

“ _I take it he has not?_ ” Rhonith asked, and Thranduil noted the worry bleeding into her voice. He smiled mentally; she was inexplicably fond of the troublemaking wizard[91]. Thranduil himself was reasonably fond of Radagast, who was a quiet fellow and who always provided quality entertainment when he visited. The little hedgehog had done a dancing routine for Legolas’ last birthday, and though Radagast was not always the most coherent of conversationalists, he knew many things about the forest and those living in it which was worth knowing, Thranduil felt. Mithrandir, in his opinion, was most often an annoyance, always showing up with ulterior motives. Saruman, their venerable leader, was the worst wizard of the lot, however, far too self-important and smug in his pursuit of knowledge. The few times Thranduil had had the displeasure of Saruman’s company – the White Council meetings he thankfully usually managed to avoid attending – he had left their conversations with an indefinable bad flavour in his mouth. He had spent two millennia trying to discover why the wizard gave off such ill feelings, but he had nothing but his own suspicions to settle on; Galadriel and Elrond both seemed to think the White Wizard their greatest ally in the fight against Darkness. Thranduil knew better, for no aid had come from Saruman, in fact the White wizard had counselled them against mounting a full-scale assault on the Dol Guldur fortress when Mithrandir returned with the news of the Necromancer who lived there. In return, Thranduil had watched his Realm grow ever Darker over the last century, and his people’s joy diminished. He had considered attacking the old fortress again, with his full army behind him, but he feared what power they would find in there would be too strong to be defeated with mere swords and bows. Certainly, the first attack, more than two centuries ago, now, which had cost Legolas his best friend, and twenty of the Guard’s finest their lives, had proven futile. That defeat was the reason he had asked for the Istari’s aid in investigating the Darkness that had taken hold there in the first place, though nothing had come of it on Saruman’s urging.

“ _No, there have been no whispers of his presence among my trees. Galadriel said that his last message indicated he would go to Dol Guldur. She is going there to find answers._ ” The hook was baited. Thranduil finished his meal in silence, watching his daughter think. When she was done with her own breakfast, she went off once more to the kitchens, lending her hands to Maeassel, who was overseeing the preparation of all the food they anticipated needing with the influx of the Lakemen.

 

* * *

 

“ _I wish to join my Lady Galadriel on her journey to Dol Guldur. I have a bad feeling about this venture of Mithrandir’s. He may need aid in returning here and the Galadhrim do not know this forest well_.” Rhonith spoke softly, but determinedly, at dinner that night. Thranduil looked up sharply, carefully portraying alarm rather than glee.

“ _You believe Mithrandir may be in trouble?_ ” he asked, cutting a piece of venison and spearing it on his knife.

“ _I wish to see for myself if he is not. You do not truly need me here, and as I cannot be of aid to my kinsmen in the Mountain, I may as well seek out the wizard. I am…uneasy, Atheg._ ” She sighed. Thranduil chewed thoughtfully, studying his steadfast companion. In that moment he missed his beloved queen so fiercely his heart ached. She had had that exact expression on her face so many times when she told him what she would do, and he knew there would be no swaying Rhonith either, even if he had wanted to. He sighed.

“ _I know that I cannot sway you from this task, sellig, though I wish you would stay. If you are set on your path, however, I will loan you an Aithiel for the journey south. If you leave in the morning, you should get to the old fortress in time to meet the White Lady. Get Ivanneth to pack your saddlebags,”_ he paused, _“and, Rhonith…be careful. Those lands are ruled by a darker power than my own. The very air is tainted and foul. You will find no love of the Eldar in those parts of my Realm. Much has changed, even since your last visit. Do not act recklessly, sellig, and be back by the changing of the seasons. Mereth Nuin Giliath[91] is in less than three weeks. I expect to see you dance in starlight this time. You were absent from the last Feast and you were sorely missed._ ” Hopefully, she would be back before Legolas returned and found out where she had gone; that was the only part of this plan he did not like. Since Alphel’s death, Legolas had had a fear and loathing for the site of her demise, and Thranduil would rather avoid him worrying that he would lose another he loved – even if it was very different kinds of love – on the dark stones of Dol Guldur.

The brilliant smile he received in return for this offer made his scheming entirely worth it.

 

  

Two days after her departure, he regretted his decision to let her go alone. The arrival of one of the units of Legolas’ group, with news of an Orc band roaming his Realm unsettled him deeply, but he could do little but hope that she had not come across them. Dispatching several units to scout for those stragglers that had escaped his son’s archers, Thranduil resigned himself to waiting for news.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, Ilsamirë had Aithiel saddled and with a great leap the elk set off to the south, picking her way easily among the trees. The Elk of Mirkwood needed no paths, although Ilsamirë kept her mount on track. It took her little more than a week to reach the dark stone fortress. Eerie silence ruled the land surrounding Dol Guldur and Ilsamirë left Aithiel to scout ahead. A soft word to the Elk ensured that Aithiel would not follow. She did not enter the fortress itself, but kept watch for any movements from a strategically placed tree.

 

 

A few days later, she spotted light glinting off silvery mail and the pure white garments of the Lady Galadriel. Ilsamirë jumped lithely from her perch and called out to the Galadhrim with a bird cry native to Lothlórien.

“ _Cousin! It is good to see you_.” Galadriel gave her a benevolent smile in response.

 _Cousin Ilsamirë. Indeed you are a welcome sight. I did not think Thranduil would send aid? And furthermore I thought you in Imladris by now. It is clear you have quite the tale behind you, but now is not the time for the telling._ Galadirel’s words sounded through her mind, but the White Lady only asked one question, _“Have you seen Mithrandir?_ ”

Ilsamirë shook her head, “ _No, my Lady, and I am worried. The fortress would seem abandoned, but I feel it fairly teeming with a malevolent force. I had no wish to enter unaided, for this part of the forest is full of spiders. Thranduil has lost many seasoned warriors here and the Wood-elves avoid it. Some spawn of Ungolianth, Radagast says, for they are massive in size and some even exhibit powers of speech. My journey from the North was hampered by many of their webs and once I came across a hunting group. Aithiel helped fight them off, however, and they could not have warned their brethren_.”

“ _Then we shall go together. Haldir, tolo[92]._ ” The Lady strode forward boldly, guarded by the ever-faithful Marshwarden. Galadriel’s white garments billowed gently with each silent footfall, her bare feet touching the earth with perfect grace. Ilsamirë took a deep breath and followed. Crossing the threshold of the fortress felt exactly as bad as she had imagined it would. It truly felt as if some menacing entity was torturing the very air into screaming against their senses, but the place looked entirely devoid of life.

The elves slowly moved across the withered grey flagstones. Although the structure was old and marred by the ravages of time, the forest had yet to reclaim the old stone. No ivy climbed the cold grey stone, and no animals scurried across the ground towards hidden nests. The fortress was lifeless. They found no sign of the lost wizard, only dread-filled shadows and a few strange insects scurrying through the cracks and crevices. An eerie wailing filled the chilly air, striking fear in the hearts of the Elves. Galadriel raised her hand, _Nenya[93]_ gleaming despite the low light of Dol Guldur. Her voice rang out, echoing off the stone walls:

“ _Thalos_![94]”

A shriek pierced the air. A few old rocks tumbled to the ground. The wailing ceased, leaving an almost more eerie silence behind. In the gloom, invisible eyes opened, studying the warriors intently. A statue appeared to move, following the White Lady with its empty eyes. A bow twanged. The arrow clattered on the stone. Haldir glared at the shooter, who ducked his head, embarrassed by his own nerves. Galadriel caught the unfortunate elf’s eyes, leaving an encouraging thought in his mind.

“ _I have come for Mithrandir_.” Galadriel’s voice rang with undefinable power. “ _You will not keep me from him_.”

Suddenly the air rippled in front of them. As if drawing back a curtain, a grey-cloaked form was revealed, bowed under an attack, which was simultaneously unseen and made of the darkest of shadows. It was Gandalf, trying to hold off the shade of the Necromancer with _Glamdring_ and his staff, the jewel on top shining brightly, throwing spears of light into the shade. On his finger, Narya[95] glittered brilliantly, refracting the light from his staff as well as burning with its own immense inner power. As it pierced the Necromancer’s almost-there body, _Glamdring_ appeared aflame. The bows of the Galadhrim sung out once more, piercing the dark figure with their strong arrows, but leaving no visible wounds. The fiery shade looked up at the invading Elves and redoubled his attack on the lone Istar[96].

“ _Elbereth Gilthoniel![97]_ ” With another war cry, Galadriel and her guard threw themselves into the fight.

The elves sprang forward, silver blades whirling, creating their own shimmers of light and sparks of fire as they clashed against the fel blades of the suddenly appearing Nazgûl spirits. Galadriel went to the aid of the beleaguered wizard, who had barely noticed their arrival, locked in a glorious contest of will and power with the Necromancer. The dark shade seemed limned in fire but he was still advancing. Gandalf was battered relentlessly and appeared to be bleeding from several smaller cuts. The wizard was growing slower in his parries and the Necromancer had managed to hurt his leg, leaving the wizard precariously balanced. The wraiths kept the elven warriors busy, swords clashing against swords as they moved silently across the scarred rocks of the fortress.

Brilliant white light shone forth from Nenya, engulfing the darkness of the Necromancer. He turned to face the White Lady and spoke in the dark language of Mordor. His voice brought despair on the wind, but Galadriel’s light burst from her with the surging forces of a raging sea and dissipated the dark mists of terror. Her radiance was both beautiful and terrible to behold, as though a raging tempest had taken Elven form to do battle with the darkness. The eldritch shade glared, concentrating his power on combating the light. His eyes opened, where there had been no eyes before, and they were malevolently flickering flames. The burning gaze of hatred centred on the brilliant Ring of Power and scorched the hand holding it. Mithrandir had finally recovered his wits and threw himself into the fight, staff and sword blazing. His fire met the form of the Shade and set it alight once more. The burning eyes turned to the wizard whose sword swung true towards its face. The Necromancer swung a shadowy blade, hitting the wizard hard in the side. Gandalf crumbled to the ground, but the Shade’s next swing was blocked by his sword. Galadriel’s light enveloped the fallen wizard, replenishing and augmenting his own power. Again and again she thrust her hand towards the nebulously shifting shadows, blasting brilliant white light against it. The shade shrieked in pain, and once again uttered words in the foul tongue of Barad Dûr. Gandalf thrust his sword and staff forwards, glowing with the light of magic, into the ghastly form. He spoke, powerful voice ringing through the area.

“ _Sauron i eneth lîn! No edledhio_! _Ego, gwarth!_[98]”

A terrifying scream rent the air as the shade writhed in front of the mage. It used one last burst of power to knock everyone to the ground then it simply vanished from sight. Slowly, the uninjured elves found their feet, turning to aid their wounded fellows. Mithrandir lay still on the stones. Galadriel moved the last two feet and knelt at his side, stretching a hand towards the prone form and running it through the air over his body. She was murmuring quiet Quenyan words of healing and her ring was still glowing softly. Ilsamirë looked around at the Elves from Lothlórien, tallying the wounded. Of the thirty warriors who had entered the fortress, only five were not standing. Ilsamirë approached slowly. A quick look showed Mithrandir beginning to move. He looked older than she had ever seen him, and even the glory of the White Lady could not conceal the weary lines on his face or the grey pallor of his skin. Galadriel’s voice petered off into silence and she simply sat by the fallen Istar, staring into the air.

“ _My Lady, you can do no more for him. He will need healing and time, but not here. Your Wardens need you, now_.” Ilsamirë placed a soft hand on the white-clad shoulder and Galadriel startled slightly.

“ _Yes, Cousin of mine. Sit with Mithrandir while I speak to Lord Haldir. I wish to be gone from this place as soon as possible_.”

Ilsamirë sank to her knees, grasping Gandalf’s limp hand in her own and squeezing it softly. The wizard blinked slowly.

“ _Iston i nîf gîn,_ _mírdan dithen_[99].”

“ _Hello, Mithrandir. We found you at last_.” She smiled and the wizard closed his eyes again.

“ _Lady Ilsamirë, we will be leaving soon. We’ll set up camp by yours and treat our wounded before we return to Lothlórien._ ” Haldir spoke softly behind her and Ilsamirë nodded. Her long-bladed knives were returned to their sheaths and she got to her feet, nodding a greeting at the Marshwarden. Ilsamirë bent, picking up _Glamdring_ and sheathing it at Gandalf’s side. She picked up his staff and coaxed the Maia to his feet, draping his arm across her shoulder. Haldir took his other arm and together they slowly made their way across the uneven ground, Gandalf being carried by the two Elves more than walking under his own power.

 

Although it had not seemed as if their battle had been long, when the group of elves finally made their way out of the shadowy reaches of Dol Guldur it was dawn again. A full day and night had passed under the strange power of that place and they were all pleased to hear the wind rustling in the leaves once more. Aithiel greeted her rider happily, licking her cheek before settling down to rest next to Gandalf, who had slipped into a deep healing sleep.

 _You will bring him to Thranduil, cousin?_ Galadriel’s voice spoke in her mind.

 _I will care for him. He will want to head for Erebor as soon as he is well, and the Halls are closer to that goal than letting him go with you, my Lady,_ Ilsamirë replied.

 _And where does your path lead?_ The lady wondered, smiling fondly at her young cousin.

_I will not return for a while, if Erebor is reclaimed. I gave my word to Thorin Oakenshield._

_Valar protect you on your journey._ Galadriel’s soft voice slipped through her thoughts like a caress before she turned to speak once more with Haldir.

Ilsamirë spent the next few hours aiding her friends, preparing bandages for the wounded. Other elves were making a pot of nourishing broth from the supplies they had brought. Lady Galadriel had helped her warriors begin to heal the few who had been cut by the morgul blades of the Nine, and then she had joined Mithrandir in true sleep, guarded by the ever-vigilant Haldir.

* * *

 

 

The next morning, once Galadriel and Mithrandir had awoken, the group split. The Galadhrim turned towards Lothlórien and Ilsamirë and Gandalf slowly made their way north through the forest towards the Halls of Thranduil. The journey took a long time, for although they could put their supplies on Aithiel, the elk could not carry them both and Gandalf needed frequent rests. The journey that had seemed so swift on the back of a fast elk now seemed eternal. Ilsamirë was grateful that Ivanneth had insisted on packing as much lembas as she could cram into the saddlebag. She sent Thranduil a thought on the night of Mereth nuin Giliath four days after they had departed Dol Guldur, but the celebration went unmentioned between the two travellers. She had not truly expected to be back in time, and even with a second elk to carry the wizard it would have been impossible. It took them almost a month to return to the Halls and most of that time had been spent in silence. Gandalf was lost in thoughts of his battle with the Necromancer, whom he now knew was indeed Sauron. Their battle had been in the mind as much as in the physical realm and it would take time to sort through the damage. Gandalf was almost certain he had caught glimpses of the Enemy’s Plan, but he could not discern whether what he had seen was the truth or simply a smokescreen for the real plans. He was very worried. The Enemy had been routed from the fortress, but not slain. If what he had seen was truly what would come to pass, grave danger lurked around the corner, especially for the Company.

 

* * *

 

 

As they moved ever further north, Gandalf slowly emerged from the deepest recesses of his mind. Quietly he mused that if he was to have company during times when his existence was more of an ephemeral than a physical nature, a dwelf was probably the best choice. All the patience of the Elves, but with the fiery heart of the Dwarrow. Not that the Eldar’s passions did not burn just as intensely, but theirs was a cooler fire, he felt, tempered by patience and time. Their long lives gave them plenty of pleasure and love, but the short spans of mortal years were evident in the way the other races felt things. He had wondered before, whether the inherent knowledge that it could be over so quickly was what led the Men and Hobbits of his acquaintance to love as they did, and not for the first time he felt a stab of pity for his companion; stuck between two races at once so different but in truth far more similar than either would admit. Ilsamirë let him brood, but kept him anchored to the present with her constant singing and physical presence. Most of the songs were in Sindarin or Westron, but when he surfaced enough to notice he even caught strands of Quenya and what could only be Khuzdul. The snippets of Khuzdul seemed to increase in frequency as the days wore on, revealing his companion’s thoughts, and he could feel his own worry growing too. He had meant to re-join the Company before they could enter the mountain, but that seemed an unlikely goal now. As Gandalf gradually emerged from the hazy reaches of his own subconscious, they conversed more. The wizard was not yet fully healed, but even as he walked the paths of dreams, he wished for news of the Company he had helped send off to face a dragon. They had been approached by no scouts, which would indicate that the Woodland Elves were kept busy with their guests – a good sign.

* * *

 

 

“They must have reached the mountain by now,” the wizard said, on a chilly morning in the middle of October. Ilsamirë nodded, looking slightly relieved at the level of alertness inherent in the Wizard’s gaze and words.

“Yes, mellon-nîn, they should have. Legolas and his patrol should have returned to the Halls with the Men of Laketown as well. Durin’s Day is in less than a fortnight. We should arrive in Thranduil’s Halls by the end of next week. At this speed, another 9 days. I wonder if the dwarrow will have sent news by then.”

“I am sorry, my dear, that I am slowing us down so much. I’m afraid this battle has wearied me more than I thought. Did I remember to thank the Lady for her timely assistance before we departed?”

It was not the first time Gandalf had repeated a question already answered, but Ilsamirë did not draw attention to the fact that this conversation had happened more than once during their journey.

She smiled fondly at the Maia. “I conveyed thanks on your behalf in case she had not seen your gratitude in your mind. Galadriel was quite exhausted as well. She will recover once she is back home with Celeborn. Your slowness is no bother, old friend, it is not the first time I have kept you company on a slow journey and I would wager it will not be the last,” she winked and Gandalf gave her a wry smile in return. “I have never required your constant mental presence while rambling and I am easily capable of steering your physical form through this darkened forest. Mahal wept, Gandalf, you just battled the Shade of the Enemy, you are allowed time to recuperate. I will not press, but I am here if you wish to discuss what you saw. I know you must have breached his mind.”

“It would seem I did, my dear, though I do not know how accurate my visions were. I am troubled. I fear that I saw the truth and Erebor will soon be besieged by an army of Orcs and Goblins, led by Azog and Bolg.” They both shuddered at the foul names.

“With what we know of Azog and his thirst for revenge, I should be surprised if he did not come for Thorin. He has wanted the Line of Durin extinguished since before Azanulbizar. When I left, Thorin and Thranduil were well on their way to becoming allies. We may rely on his aid, if it comes to war. The Men might fight too, neither people is interested in Erebor being held by Dark forces. Orcs holding Gundabad and Khazad-dûm is already a stain on the soul of all Dwarrow. The Angmar Orcs have always been the most reviled for this slight.” She frowned and continued, “If Bolg has command at Gundabad, he could raise a sizeable army against the dwarrow. Angmar Orcs have a deep hatred for Durin’s Folk. The taunts of the Goblin King indicate that he is in contact with the Orcs at least, and his death at your hands might incite the Goblins to join a potential alliance for revenge. We could face both.”

“ _Goston sen._[100]”

Neither gave voice to the fear that Orcs and Goblins might not be the worst beings they could be facing. Smaug would make the rest of the armies entirely redundant if the dwarrow failed in their quest to kill him.

 

 

###### notes:

[91] The 5 Maia sent to Middle-Earth to protect it from evil are collectively known as the Order of Wizards – Heren Istarion, later shortened to the Istari, a plural of Istar, the noun form of the verb for to have knowledge, ista-. Thus it means something like the knowledgeable or alternatively the wise. Their names are Saruman(Curumo, chosen by Aulë), Radagast(Aiwendil, chosen by Yavanna), Morinehtar(Alator, chosen by Oromë), Rómestámo(Pallando, chosen as a friend by Alator) and Gandalf/Mithrandir(Olórin, chosen by Manwë). Gandalf did not want to go, because he was afraid, but Manwë said that was the reason he should go.

[92] Feast under Stars, 22 September, the day after the autumn equinox

[93] Come.

[94] The Ring of Water; imbued with powers of protection, preservation and concealment from evil. Galadriel used this ring to guard the realm of Lothlórien.

[95] Valour/courage (Noldorin; elvish as spoken by the Noldor)

[96] The Ring of Fire; given to Cirdan the Shipwright by Celebrimbor and passed to Mithrandir.

[97] Elbereth(Queen of Stars) Gilthoniel(Star-Kindler): Sindarin names for Varda(Quenyan name meaning Sublime), the Star-queen, most beloved of the Vala. She is the highest Queen of the Vala, and wife of Manwë. Her name is invoked as a prayer in times of need.

[98] I name you Sauron! You are exiled! Begone, betrayer!

[99] I know your face, Little Jewel-smith (affectionate nickname)

[100]That [is what] I fear


	13. Worries and Homecomings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Return of the Wanderers, plots revealed.

The great gates of Thranduil’s Halls were thrown open. The refugees passed slowly through the massive doorway, exclaiming at the interior architecture and the impossible beauty of the caves. The massive tree roots that wound their way through the complex, in places thick enough to serve as walkways had them shrinking back warily. Such plants were not natural, and it brought home the stark contrast between the two races. During their long march, the Elves, while otherworldly, had seemed part of the land around them, aloof but approachable. The Elves who walked the paths of Thranduil’s Halls, however, were nothing like they had expected. Most of them were content to ignore their guests, or simply nodding briefly as they silently slipped by, like water flowing around rocks in the path of a river. The first group of refugees, led by Faindirn and Erfaron, moved slowly through the Halls until they reached the massive cavern that held Thranduil’s Throne. The Woodland King sat languidly on the massive carved seat. Behind him, giant antlers that were taller than most grown Men framed his throne, and his head was crowned with autumn leaves and berries. The crown made of plants, somehow fit the ruler of a forest Realm, and, even if it reminded a few of the refugees of the tradition of crowning a Harvest Queen thus, it did nothing to detract from his majesty. The sheer power of his presence had many of the Lakemen sending silent prayers to the Valar for protection. The Elvenking sat in silence, his eyes roaming across the group, wherever his gaze fell, those beneath it tried their best not to cower. This Elf exuded power, as though only his benevolence or possibly the utter insignificance of their might in his eyes allowed them to even breathe the air of his Realm, let alone live on its borders. 

“ _Faindirn, Erfaron. Are these all the guests we should expect?_ _Where is my son?_ ” The soft Sindarin voice rung with command, and, if anything, the musical language of the Elves made the Men only more fearful. A few scholarly inclined Men among them understood the King’s words, but they did not draw any attention to their skills. It was abundantly clear that the best policy for living in their temporary sanctuary would be speak when spoken to – at least when it came to the mercurial King. The two members of Legolas’s patrol group bowed to Thranduil. The theatricality of their welcome did not fill them with the same awe and apprehension as their charges, being far more familiar with their ruler. Thranduil was not angry, simply a little concerned, and Faindirn hastened to answer his query.

“ _This is the first group, King Thranduil. Curulhénes and Legolas will arrive with the last inhabitants of Laketown in four days. We thought it would be easier to guide the Men in several groups rather than have them all move through our forest as one large party, in case the remnants of the Orc band we fought on the way to Laketown remained. They are bringing barges with supplies up river as far as they can. Prince Legolas sends his greetings to you and Lady Rhonith.”_ Faindirn explained. Thranduil nodded. “King Thranduil, may I introduce to you the Master of Laketown.” The elf bowed again, pushing the Master forwards with a hand against his back. The Man stumbled slightly, his face pale under Thranduil’s scrutiny.

“Y-Your Majesty, thank you for this gracious welcome,” he began rambling, trying to act as if being here was a grand honour, even though he personally found Elves unnatural and more than a little creepy. This King was even worse than those whose company he had had to suffer on the walk through the dark forest and the Master was fearful. He had to play nice with the Elf, but he did not like it. His reluctance and revulsion easily transmitted through his eyes, and Thranduil’s annoyance climbed steadily. He had known that the Master would be an odious acquaintance, but – for the first time in more than a thousand years – he felt a desire to cleave this repulsive man’s head from his shoulders. The King idly entertained the thought, but waved it away with a negligent motion and stood. His fluid grace thankfully stopped the man’s babble, and Thranduil took two steps towards the Lakemen. The Master shrank back, and Thranduil allowed himself a smug mental grin at the fear on the Man’s face. Turning slightly, so his words would be addressed to the group as a whole, the King made it clear that the Master was not someone he would waste his breath on. A few Men snickered, but their mirth at the Master’s obvious cowardice was quickly hidden in scarves or smothered by an elbow in the ribs from their women.

“People of Laketown,” Thranduil’s Westron was quiet and carried traces of the accent of his Doriathren childhood. The Elvenking instantly held the full attention of the assembled refugees. “Be welcome in my Kingdom. We will assign quarters to you, though the space is limited. Whatever possessions you do not immediately need will have to be put in storage, and any food supplies you have brought will be taken to the kitchens. Meals will be served in the communal dining halls.” He waved towards the redheaded Galion, “My Steward will see to it that you are comfortably housed and that those among you who wish to be useful are put to work.” Another wave brought the smiling baker forward. Her shrewd gaze slid over the group of refugees while Thranduil spoke, “Maeassel is in charge of the kitchens and she will need a few hands to help. Those of you who are sick or injured should report to Nestor in the Halls of Healing, any Elf will show you the way. Many of my people do not speak the Common Tongue, but they will endeavour to aid you in going where you need.” He paused slightly, giving them all a gimlet stare, “You should also be aware that you are now subject to Elven law… if you have any questions, direct them to Master Galion.” With those words, Thranduil returned to his throne, letting the Steward get on with the task of settling in the Men. His thoughts flew far from the commotion in his Halls, however, seeing in his mind the short form of Rhonith lost in the woods, and the taller body of his son leading Men among the Mirkwood trees. He tried to keep his worry from reaching his subjects, but he did not like that Rhonith had not sent word. He had expected her to have either arrived herself, along with the Wizard, or at least to have been spotted by one of his patrols or one of the hunting groups. _Mereth Nuin Giliath_ had passed the night before, and the uncertainty of her whereabouts and condition had diminished his joy in the feasting of his people.

 

* * *

 

 

Four days later, just as _firith[101] _ began painting the trees around the Halls in its vibrant colours, the second group of refugees arrived. In the time since his arrival, the Master had managed to offend and alienate all the Elves unfortunate enough to understand him, and tempers were frayed. Thranduil had taken to staying as far from the leader of his guests as he could, letting Galion deal with the reprehensive mortal. His worry was steadily climbing, and he was staring out of the window of his study when Legolas entered. The trees were brilliantly red, the leaves only just beginning to fall, and the Elvenking’s mind was far away. In his memory, he walked once more with his beloved Nínimeth, who had loved the fading season most of all. She had made the first crown of red-leaved maple twigs and bright berries for him, and had sparked a tradition he still followed to this day.

“ _Ada. I am home_.” Thranduil felt more than saw his son coming to stand beside him.

“ _I am glad. I hope those you have brought are less troublesome than those who are here. Many of our people are taking wagers on whether the Master will have an unfortunate tumble off one of the open walkways. He is a displeasing character.”_ He reached out unerringly, even though Legolas had taken position on his blind side, stroking softly over the fine point of his youngest son’s ear. Legolas sighed, accepting the comfort with a slight nudge of his head.

 _“He did not strike me as a good man, and King Thorin was even more eloquent in his assessment of his character than you… I believe his phrasing was akin to ‘sack of troll excrement’, though it might have been even more unflattering. Master Dori went to cover young Ori’s ears.”_ He laughed lightly, seeing again the expression on Balin’s face, torn between amusement at his King’s extensive vocabulary of Khuzdul curses and outrage that Thorin had forgotten that he was speaking their secret tongue in front of an Elf. _“I have brought Bard, descendant of Girion, perhaps he will be able to corral his people. They seem to hold him in higher esteem these days for his willingness to speak with Thorin Oakenshield and his efforts to persuade them to go against the Master’s wishes and evacuate.”_ Joining his father in perusing the fiery foliage, the two elves fell into comfortable silence. “ _Ada-nîn, where is Rhonith? I did not see her when we arrived_.” Legolas did not miss the Elvenking’s slight flinch at his question, but the answer made his own shoulders tense under his leather tunic.

“ _Rhonith went to Dol Guldur to look for Mithrandir with Lady Galadriel almost lefneir leben io[102]. She has not yet returned. I do not know where she is now._ ” Thranduil admitted slowly. He had hoped to avoid having to worry Legolas, but he would not lie to his son either.

“ _Why would she go there? That fortress is dark, how could you let her go?_ ” Legolas’ tone was one of cold fury. He did not truly blame Thranduil, for he knew that his friend was a wilful elleth, and if she had made up her mind to go, the stubbornness of her mother’s people would shine through clearly and ensure that she would go. That did not stop him from feeling acute horror at the thought of those dark stones shining red with her blood. Dol Guldur had been a foul place, even in his youth, and the old fortress had only grown darker of late. The Guards of the Woodland Realm were convinced that Dol Guldur was the reason for the giant spiders that infested their forest, strangling the trees with their webs and poisoning the soil with darkness. At first, they had tried sending in warriors to clear out the place, but after none of the twenty chosen had returned, Thranduil had abandoned the plan and they had taken to simply culling the spiders wherever they found them, burning the nests and the webs. So far, most of the northern part of Mirkwood was still relatively safe, but the peril was growing. To voluntarily venture where so many had perished… Legolas felt fearful.

“ _Legolas. Ionneg, I stopped her going after the dragon, and that was difficult enough. You know what she is like, however, never one to remain behind if she could be off on an adventure. Our Rhonith has fire in her heart, much like your naneth. I could no more stop her than Nínimeth if her mind was truly made up. We simply have to trust that her skills will see her returned to us soon. She is a capable fighter and she was going to meet Lady Galadriel. The Marshwardens will see her safe, even if Mithrandir has gotten himself in trouble. Have faith my son_. _She will return ere long, I’m sure._ ” In truth, he was more than beginning to worry, but he would do his best to shield Legolas from the same fears that swirled in his heart. His son was far too impulsive, and Thranduil did not want him to get the idea to run off into the forest looking for Rhonith. If she had not been seen within the next three weeks, he would send out more scouts, but for now the Elvenking decided to bide his time.

“ _I will try. She is…important to me_.” Legolas mumbled, not entirely convinced by his Ada’s admonition. Trying to hide his worry, he put on a slight smile.

“ _Loved_ ,” his father chided. Legolas stiffened. Thranduil continued calmly, as if his son had showed no reaction to the correction, “ _I may have only one eye, ionneg, but do not think me so blind as to miss the way you watch her. Long have you desired her, my son, and yet done little to sway her heart towards you_. _I have kept my peace on the matter, I wanted you to work out your own heart, but I think the time has come to discuss this_.”

Legolas, who had believed his father ignorant of his deepening feelings, something the elder elf had never given him reason to doubt before, was caught off guard. “ _How long have you known?_ ” he could barely whisper the words through fear. What if Thranduil did not approve?

“ _You have watched her for nearly four yén[103] by my count, but it might have been longer… I had despaired of you ever finding the courage to ask her, but it seems you have been closer than I have seen you in some years before during this visit. She has forgiven whatever made her so angry with you three centuries hence._ ” Thranduil turned his shrewd gaze on the fidgeting prince. “ _Did you think I could not see it? Even if I were completely blind, ionneg, you are my son, and you are beloved by our people. They are very protective of you and word of your exploits and endeavours spread quickly. I do not think there is one in my Realm who do not see how you look at her…”_ he trailed off softly, looking at the red leaves rustling in the breeze once more, giving his son time to collect himself, “ _Perhaps except Rhonith herself_. _You are my son, Legolas, and you look at her the way I looked at your mother._ ” Legolas drew in a deep breath, blowing it out in a heavy sigh. He too turned to look at the reddening leaves.

“ _I don’t think she knows I care for her more than a friend would. She has given me no sign that she returns my love._ ” And it was a relief to say the words finally, even if his next ones made him feel like an elfling clinging to his father’s robes, “ _What do I do, Ada? What if she does see me as only a friend? What if she doesn’t?_ ” he did not know which of those were the more frightening option, truly. If Rhonith was amenable, he would get his heart’s desire, but he had little reference as to what it meant to be someone’s husband. Those among his friends who were married did not behave much differently with their spouses in public than before they had wed, and the only lesson he had taken from his father’s fate was patient stoicism and well-concealed longing. On the other hand, if she wasn’t inclined towards him, he would spend the rest of his days pining for her, possibly fading, he fretted, having ruined their friendship utterly.

“ _Peace, Legolas. You have been cautious so far, do not let your fears run away with you. Rhonith loves you dearly, it is simply a question of letting herself love you fully.”_ Thranduil did not say that he thought she already did, even if she would never admit it. He had seen far more than Rhonith probably wished he had, he knew, and certainly more than she realised, but he had given Legolas ample time to sort it out between them. It was time to intervene, even if it was not his place to tell Legolas that she had looked upon him with love since he had been placed in her arms as a new-born elfling. He had seen the light of joyful realisation quickly followed by a flash of despair that had crossed her features, and Nínimeth’s dry words had confirmed his suspicions later. Rhonith had never brought up the topic, and Thranduil knew better than to mention it. He well remembered when that same realisation had happened for his son, even if Legolas had not confided the feeling at the time. He knew the true reasons Nínimeth had asked Rhonith to remain beside him as often as her wandering feet would let her _. “Because of what she is, her path has never been easy.”_ He cautioned, “ _You will need to convince her that you are in earnest, and that will not be without difficulties. She will be scared to let you into her heart, though the reason is hers to share_.” Thranduil paused, studying his son, “ _It goes without saying that if you hurt her, not only will I punish you, but I will hand you over to the Dwarf-King to punish as he sees fit. The Dwarrow, though they have not known her long, have grown protective of their cousin._ ” Legolas paled. Thranduil continued blithely, “ _They will expect you to court her in the manner of her mother’s people, something no elf has undertaken since Celebrimbor won the heart of Narví. Dwarrow were crafted from stone and made to endure, they will not accept a love that will flicker like a candle flame, but only one that will burn steadily like the coals of a well-stocked forge. In the days before Thrór went mad, I had several conversations about love with his Queen. Dwarrow believe in the existence of Ones, the person who is crafted for them, the match to their soul, although how to discover whether a lover is their One seems to be difficult to explain. Nevertheless, I give you my blessing, both as your father and King and as her adopted father to pledge your suit._ ” _Oh, Ionneg, you have a battle ahead of you,_ Thranduil thought wryly. Rhonith had spent an age denying her own heart, suppressing the feeling of ‘One-ness’ as Sigvór had called it, pretending what she felt was not what it was. Her absences were growing longer, and he could see the struggle she faced every time she arrived, though it was nothing to the one she fought every time she left, and Thranduil feared that the Longing would soon grow too strong for her to fight it. When that happened, he had guessed many yén before, she would go into the West, or perhaps simply fade away, because she believed it was the right thing to do for her One. It was not a fate Thranduil was willing to accept. He had so little true family left in Arda, he would go very far to protect those who remained to him.

 

Soon thereafter, the prince made his excuses and went to find his patrol group. He had not checked on Thalawen since his return, and the duty weighed heavily on his shoulders. He pushed back all worry for Rhonith, and tried not to imagine what hideous tests the Dwarrow would devise for him to be worthy of her, nor how he would even make his desire known to her. Making his way through the dimly lit corridors of his father’s Halls, he passed a few of the Men who had been under his care for the past week’s travel and received several nods of recognition. They did not have enough spare rooms for all the Laketown inhabitants, and even after putting the cells in the dungeons to use – unlocked and with open doors, of course – some families still had to camp out in the wider hallways. In the daytime, their packs and belongings were stowed in nearby rooms, filled to the rafters with things, but at night they would bring out bedrolls and blankets and settle around warming braziers along the walls. When he finally reached the room usually occupied by his group, who did not all live in the Halls permanently, he found only Thalawen and Curulhénes inside. The two elleths were talking quietly, admiring the picture Ori had drawn before their parting. Tears were running slowly down Thalawen’s cheeks as she recounted a silly story of the time Dínelloth had walked backwards into a spider web because he had been too busy staring into her eyes to watch where he was going. Eventually, the rest of their group trickled into the room, settling down for the night’s reverie and combing. Each of them kept contact with Thalawen somehow, anchoring her to the present, although they could all see the pain of sharing her comb with anyone who was not Dínelloth. She had not yet begun fading in earnest, but Legolas was less than hopeful. Thalawen’s eyes were dull, lacking their customary vibrancy and colour. An orphan herself, Dínelloth had been her only family, and his parents had died in the same war that claimed the life of their King. He feared that she was simply biding her time, but the greyed out irises were usually the first signs of fading. It could be quick or it could last for decades, but eventually Thalawen would grow increasingly transparent until they day came when she was so thin and stretched that her spirit could not sustain her form and then she would be truly gone, turned to starlight and shadows, faded into death.

 

The days passed slowly, and the two royals felt their worry for their missing elleth grow.

 

* * *

 

 

When at last they spotted the great Gates, the days had started to shorten in earnest and the calendar was moving steadily towards the end of October. Mithrandir was taken straight to the healing halls by Nestor, who would not take no for an answer, and Rhonith was left to seek out the Elvenking alone.

Walking through the corridors was a quest fraught with obstacles in the form of humans. They all stared at this short elf with the peculiar braids. The Elves also braided their hair out of their faces, though most of it was left loose, and the King’s was only restrained by his crown, but this one’s braids were clasped with silver and beads winked in the light of passing torches, just like the dwarrow they had seen. None of them realised that she was as grown as she would ever be, and by the time she reached the hall to Thranduil’s study she had acquired a tail of children looking for a new playmate. Word of her ran like a wildfire through the Halls, and a passing elf with decent command of Westron explained who she was.

The guard outside the door did his best to remain stoic in the face of Rhonith’s difficulties explaining that she was indeed an adult and they had to leave her alone to see the king, earning him a sour glare from the exhausted elleth. Rhonith sighed loudly as the last child, a little girl in a blue dress and clutching a ragdoll – who had introduced herself as Tilda – extracted a promise of a story later and scampered down the corridor. Even though she loved telling stories – and to children especially – she was beyond tired. Finally the hall was cleared and she could push open the door to Thranduil’s study. Rhonith stepped into the lush room, comforted by the familiarity. She would have preferred a bath and some food before talking to anyone and was quietly relieved to find the study empty of its occupant but containing a platter of assorted nibbles. A cushioned divan accepted her weary limbs and she set to filling her stomach with something that wasn’t lembas. As tasty and nourishing as the waybread was, it got repetitive after a whole month on the road. The Dorwinion wine slid smoothly down her throat and she could barely help a moan of pleasure escaping her mouth. It was answered by a low laugh from the doorway.

“ _I mâr nîn i mâr gîn_[104] _, Rhonith_.”

” _Gi suilon, atheg. Ni lôm_.[105]”

The king walked slowly into the room, pouring himself a goblet of wine and trailed a hand over her ear on his way to his own chair. In his chest, his heart lightened, though the obvious shadows in her eyes and the tired cast to her face, the paleness of her skin, worried him greatly.

“ _You have been gone for a long time, sellig vuin[106]. Trouble?_ ”

“ _Indeed. I met up with Galadriel and her warriors outside the fortress. When we went inside to look for Mithrandir, we found him locked in combat with a nebulous shade. It was the Necromancer, who turned out to be Sauron in disguise. The Enemy was routed and fled South to Mordor we assume. The Nine came to his aid. Several Lórien Elves were badly wounded but my Lady claimed they should make a full recovery once they returned to the boughs of the Mallorn._ ” She sighed heavily, weary of the journey. “ _That is not the most imminent threat however. When he was battling the Shade, Mithrandir penetrated his mental defences and glimpsed pieces of a greater plan. We believe that an army of Orcs and possibly Goblins is marching on the Lonely Mountain. They wish to destroy the Line of Durin and leave the Dwarrow of the North without true leaders. Even if Thorin can defeat Smaug, they will attempt the Mountain. Mithrandir has sent envoys to the Eagles, for scouting reports. An army of the size he has seen cannot march invisible. Soon we will have proof. After this, we will have to decide what to do. If the Mountain is won, the Company will have to defend it from thousands of creatures of Darkness. They will need help. Dáin of the Iron Hills would come to their aid, but whatever troops he can spare will be too few by far_.”

Thranduil nodded. “ _You wish me to say that I will send warriors to the aid of your kin.”_ Rhonith nodded, too tired to beat around the bush and sipping her wine slowly. The journey had drawn lines across her forehead and her mouth was pulled into a frown as she nibbled absentmindedly. Thranduil worried in silence, “ _I think… we will muster our forces and keep in readiness. Once we have word of the fate of the Mountain, we will move to Erebor and prepare for the siege._ ” He smirked at her and raised his glass for a wry toast, “ _If I am to build an alliance with Dwarrow once more, best ensure there are dwarrow around to build it with_. _I chyth 'wîn dregar o gwen sui fuin drega od Anor. An tûr.[107]_ ”

“ _An tûr_ , _Thranduil_ _aran_.”

“ _You should rest, Sellig. You do not look well. Tomorrow I will introduce you to the leader of Esgaroth, but for now, your bed awaits. I would ask that you seek Legolas before you retire, however. While they were escorting the dwarrow to Esgaroth, they ran into an Orc pack. Dínelloth was killed_.”

Rhonith gasped. “ _Nae,_ _amarth balch[108]!” she cursed loudly. “Poor Thalawen. How is she?_ ”

“ _She is strong. Time will tell if she is strong enough to overcome the darkness which stains her spirit, though I am not hopeful_.” Thranduil sighed. He cared deeply for his people, and although Thalawen’s pain was fresh, it brought old memories of his own state after Nínimeth’s passing into the West to life in his mind. He had had Legolas, who needed him, as well as his duty to his people, to bring him back from the brink of fading, but Thalawen did not have the luxury of a child who would remind her to live. She never would, now.

With a tired smile and a nod, Rhonith abandoned Thranduil to his morose thoughts and set off through the corridors once more. First she made her way to her own chambers for a much needed wash and a change of clothes. Night had fallen outside the Halls, and she blessed the Valar that she met no overly inquisitive children on her way to the chambers Thalawen had shared with Dínelloth. She knocked softly at the door and entered quietly. Thalawen was reclining on the bed, surrounded by her group, anchoring her to the physical realm through touch. Rhonith joined them silently, at once wrapped in welcoming arms. No one spoke. Eventually she fell into a true sleep. The journey with Gandalf had been harder than she had let the old Maia know and she truly was exhausted. Gandalf had been in no fit state to guard her sleep and Aithiel could only do so much. Rhonith rested, safe between the warm bodies of her friends. One hand rested gently on Legolas’ leg, but neither spoke a greeting. She curled an arm around the still form of Thalawen, who pillowed her head on her chest. Behind her, Legolas watched silently as she slipped into peaceful dreams, his fingers running slowly back and forth along her ear. Her hair spread over the pillows in waves of damp mithril silk and the prince’s fingers itched to redo her braids. He contented himself with letting her scent follow him into reverie, walking among sweet blossoms and twinkling stars in his dreams.

 

* * *

 

 

When Rhonith woke, she was alone and made her way to the kitchens. Her sense of time told her it was early afternoon and she had slept for a long time. She flitted silently from shadow to shadow, taking obscure routes to avoid anyone’s notice. Once in the warm, happy domain of Maeassel, she claimed a plate of food and settled in an unobtrusive corner to eat. She paid no mind to the surrounding bustle and noise of the kitchen, lost in her thoughts. Absentmindedly, she braided her long tresses while she ate. When she surfaced at last, she escaped with a smile of thanks to the friendly baker and made her way towards the Halls of Healing.

“My dear Lady! Good to finally see you. Would you please explain to this old dragon that I do not need to be fed only gruel?” The belligerent face of Mithrandir greeted her unhappily, stabbing his spoon into his bowl. Nestor scowled beside him.

“Mithrandir, you know Nestor only wants the best for you. I’m sure if you eat the whole bowl, I might be allowed to bring you a few slices of _cordof_[019]? Perhaps one of Maeassel’s mini berry tarts.” Rhonith cast a beguiling smile towards the cranky old healer, who relented with a grunt. Gandalf beamed. Laughing softly, Rhonith turned around and headed back to the kitchens to beg a treat for the recalcitrant wizard. She fetched a second tart, thinking that Nestor might relent in his vehemence if he too received a treat.

 

When she returned, treat in hand, Mithrandir had been joined by Thranduil and the two were talking in low voices. Having handed over the treat and exchanged a few sentences with the king, Rhonith made her escape, going to the riverbank to watch the last rays of the sun dance on the rapids of the coursing water. After sundown, she returned to eat in the kitchen then retreated to her own bedroom for more sleep. She did not wake when Legolas entered, hours later, bearing a tray of dinner, and the elf sat quietly, smoothing the frown on her face by running his fingers lightly over her ears in a show of comfort. He was gone by morning.

 

###### notes:

[101] Fading, the season after the autumnal equinox in the elven calendar.

[102] Five weeks (of five days each) ago. Week = lefnar, plural lefneir.

[103] One yén = 144 years of the sun.

[104] My home is your home.

[105] I greet you, father. I am tired.

[106] Dear daughter

[107] Our enemies flee like darkness from the sun. To victory.

[108] Alas, cruel fate

[109] Small red apple.


	14. Desolations and Doorways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey continues.

Leaving Laketown on the 19th of September was a boisterous affair. The children – and even some of the adults – were singing the old song about the King under the Mountain, as the fully loaded ponies trotted away from the Long Lake.

Considering Bilbo’s fear of water and inability to swim, as well as a marked reluctance towards anything to do with sailing, they had opted not to take the offer of being sailed across the lake and meeting the pack ponies on the shore. They would still have to walk to the Lonely Mountain, but the journey was eased considerably by their own lightened packs. The Company were in high spirits as they began the last leg of their long journey, trading quips and jokes with abandon. The land surrounding Laketown did not immediately show the taint of the dragon, but as they moved slowly across the open land, those who had lived in Erebor felt remarkably uneasy. In Balin’s youth, this land had been well-tended fields interspersed with small woods teeming with game. Now the land felt harsh and unwelcoming.  
Bilbo’s lingering sense of unease, which had never really abated since entering Mirkwood, flared up again as he looked across the land. Where babbling brooks had once fed the fields, no flowing water could be heard. The woods, those that had not burned or been smashed to kindling by the dragon on his last raid sixty years before, were too silent. The Hobbit couldn’t help but wonder if the land had once resembled his beloved Shire, and a shiver of dread filled him at the thought. Ilsamirë had promised him that the elves could heal and restore the land, and even here, so close to inhabited places, he saw the need. What should have been a riot of autumn colours was a dull brown, and even those fields that had not yet been harvested by the Lakemen looked less vibrant than those he had known in his homeland. The Dwarrow did not seem to notice this pall lying over the land, but Bilbo wisely thought to keep his silence. Although he certainly believed – even if doubts, especially at night, haunted his mind – that the Company would succeed in reclaiming the Mountain, his Hobbit heart could not help but hope that Thorin’s people would stay in Ered Luin until spring. This was unlikely, his more pessimistic – or realistic – side claimed as soon as the thought entered his mind. Dwarrow were stubborn creatures as a whole, and Bilbo considered it a foregone conclusion that they would set off almost before any news of victory had reached them. It was at once a lovely and exasperating trait in his companions, he mused, walking slowly behind Dwalin and Nori, who were bickering about some crime of Nori’s that had apparently been committed 80 years before, when Dwalin had been a new guardsman in the Blue Mountains. Bilbo stopped paying attention when he realised that the friendly banter had moved to a discussion of the relative merit of two taverns in one of the shadier parts of the settlement. In the beginning of the journey, the hobbit would have sworn against Nori and Dwalin being friends, but now he was not so sure. He had been slightly shocked at Beorn’s, when he realised that Thorin and Dwalin were lovers, but the notion had sparked a fierce mental debate about whether he even understood his companions at all. If two dwarrow, who – outside of sparring matches – barely touched, could be one of the strongest and greatest loves in the whole race, Bilbo felt certain that two dwarrow who only ever bickered, teased each other, and fought were actually fond friends. The thought hit him hard with a longing for home and those few hobbits he called true friends. Aside from matters of silverware inheritance and such, Hobbits as a whole were a straightforward people. The little traveller shook his head fondly at the drama playing out in front of him. Nori had drawn one of his many hidden blades and was using it to demonstrate the way he had once escaped from the custody of Dwalin’s friend. Fíli watched avidly from beside him as the slender dwarf swerved and ducked while stabbing his imaginary opponent. Dwalin chuckled.

Slowly, the light of the day waned. Thorin called a halt and the Company set to making camp with the ease of long practice. Bilbo joined the by now somewhat less rotund Bombur by the cook-fire and set to making a savoury fish stew with the most perishable supplies from Laketown. The stars shone clearly over their heads that night, leaving Balin inspired to tell stories of the pictures they showed. At first Bilbo tried to follow his pointing finger, but he soon realised that the stars were different than those shining over his hole in Hobbiton. Instead he simply listened, idly smoked his pipe, and sent a stray thought towards the dwelf girl who had carved it for him to replace the one he had lost beneath Goblintown.

Thorin spent the night staring towards the Mountain, deep in thought. He barely noticed Dwalin’s steady presence beside him, but took comfort in the solid warmth of his Kurdel nonetheless. His mind was in turmoil. He both feared Durin’s Day and wished for its arrival with all haste. The two desires warred in his breast and mingled heavily with fear of waking the dragon. He wished they had a better plan, but he was not so blind as to miss the very real possibility that one or all of the Company might not survive reaching their goal. He spared a thought for his sister and avowed once more that he would protect her sons. His sons, too, of course, in his heart of hearts. Fíli barely remembered his father, and Kíli had never even met Víli. Thorin had always been close to the lads, he and Dwalin both considering the two rascals their children as much as they were Dís’. Hidden by a fold of his cloak, Thorin reached out to hold Dwalin’s hand, taking comfort freely offered. Dwalin squeezed his fingers gently, leaning against him in comfortable silence as he watched his brother across the fire. Balin was a gifted storyteller, which was also part of what made him such a capable diplomat. Balin’s rumbling by the fire soothed them both, reminding them of long winter-nights spent talking and trading stories by the hearth. Thorin wondered whether those days would come again in Erebor, but feared the answer. Firmly taking hold in his thoughts, no matter how hard he tried to shake the notion, was the fear-tinged certainty that those nights could never again happen. The bleak mountain ahead, and the increasingly bleak landscape around him, filled him with a sense of foreboding. Restlessly, he turned in his bedroll, keeping himself anchored to Dwalin’s steady heartbeat pulsing under his hand with the blood coursing through his veins.

 

The morning dawned chilly. A thick fog had risen in the night, and the Company were half-hidden from each other. After Fíli had grabbed Thorin thrice looking for his brother, the Dwarf finally growled at his nephew to sit down and wait for breakfast, his poor sleep the night before making him even grumpier than usual in the mornings. The startled Crown Prince jumped about a mile when he realised that his brother was actually his unamused Uncle. Bombur’s call for breakfast saved the young dwarf from feeling more foolish and he went gratefully. Thorin’s temper was not something he wished to cross – especially not before breakfast! – the Dwarf-King had more in common with a bear woken from hibernation in the morning than his people would ever realise.

A filing serving of oatmeal and blackberries later, which at least appeased Thorin’s temper, the Company packed up slowly. The last wisps of fog dispersed, leaving a clear and brilliant autumn morning. The distinct breath of winter that nipped Bilbo’s nose warned of colder times to come. Counting the days, Bilbo felt a bit discombobulated. The Shire was much warmer even in late Halimath[110]. When he mentioned that to Balin, the old advisor had a fit of laughter, before he managed to explain that for their location, the weather was actually fairly mild and that the river would be frozen over thickly enough to support a fully-grown, armoured dwarf within a month’s time. He also launched into a lesson on the Dwarven calendar, having had to let Bilbo’s Khuzdul lessons lapse while among Men and Elves. The Dwarrow did not count the days quite like Hobbits, and their calendar was based on the moon, rather than the sun, which was why Durin’s day moved every year.

 

* * *

 

Seven days after their departure from Laketown, they had made it to the foothills of Erebor. They were now at the southernmost part of the western spur of the Lonely Mountain. As they had walked, the Mountain had grown bigger in the horizon, but this night had a festive feel. Bilbo was slightly confused; the closer they had gotten to the mountain, the more restless his companions seemed. Tonight, Bofur seemed downright giddy as he spread out on the hard cold ground, not even bothering with his bedroll, and sighed out a happy moan. Coming from anyone else, Bilbo would have considered the sound downright inappropriate, but the dwarrow around him were simply looking at Bofur with indulgent smiles. Bifur signed something in rapid Iglishmêk, which had half the Company in stitches, but Bilbo did not understand. He watched the hatted dwarf with concern through the evening, but Bofur did not seem to want to move from his spot. His dopey smile reminded the Hobbit of those who had indulged in slightly too much Longbottom Leaf at the Litheday Feasts. As night darkened the landscape around them, their merry fire tried valiantly to keep off the chill, but Bilbo still shuddered every now and again. Glancing at Bofur showed the Dwarf unchanged, seemingly unable to feel the cold that must be seeping through his clothes. Bilbo walked over slowly, looking down at his usually joyful friend. He had grown quite close to the toymaker during their journey, and worry etched itself across his features when Bofur failed to acknowledge his presence.

“Are you alright, Bofur?” Bilbo’s voice was quiet, but garnered no reaction from the prone dwarf.

“He’s basking, Master Baggins,” came Thorin’s low rumble from behind him. “Bofur’s family have been miners and **makhuhâlukaiku**[111] since the Second Age… their line has always had excellent stone-sense.” Bombur nodded from beside the fire, continuing Thorin’s explanation:

“Bofur has excellent range. I think he is feeling a seam of gold, but my senses are more useful when it comes to stone and fault-lines,” he smiled kindly, “That’s why I trained as an Architect, you see.” Bifur stepped up to his lounging cousin, prodding his side with a metal-capped boot once, before saying something low and growly, but strangely musical sounding while he signed something at Bilbo.

“ **Tazrimi ni biriz ra kibil, sagl mabekh**[112].” Ori translated the gestures into the correct idiom. “Don’t worry Bilbo, Bofur will be fine.” Bifur clumsily patted the Hobbit’s shoulder, but Bilbo did not feel reassured that his friend would be fine and shot a desperate glance around the Company. The wild-looking dwarf spoke with a cadence and an accent that made him nigh incomprehensible. Not only would Bifur routinely use High Khuzdul, a language that had fallen out of use before Khazad-dûm was lost, and which was used only by the Singers and Cantors of Mahal these days, but the speed with which he spoke made most of his phrases seem like they were one word to the Hobbit. Bofur was the only one who understood him all the time, although most of the others were at least able to get the gist of Bifur’s meanings through Iglishmêk. The others had turned their attention back to their dinners, leaving Balin to take pity on the poor worried Hobbit.

“Bofur is enjoying himself, Bilbo. He has never felt anything like the vast riches of Erebor, and the experience can be a little overwhelming the first time. You may see several of our Company swoon like this before we reach the Mountain, especially those who have never been near such riches. Our life in Ered Luin, while relatively peaceful, is not rich,” the old dwarf said kindly, patting a space beside him and handing the hobbit a bowl of hot stew when he made his way over. “If he isn’t out of his stupor by the time we go to bed, we will all put our bedrolls around him to keep him warm, do not worry. It would be cruel to separate Bofur from the ground, but we will not let him freeze.” Reassured, but with several worried glances towards Bofur’s prone form, Bilbo began eating.

“If my memory is correct, Master Baggins, we are directly atop the most recently discovered seam of gold in Erebor,” Thorin said, when he had finished his bowl of stew. “My Grandfather’s Chief Advisor, Lord Nár, son of Vár, proposed that – as the seam was discovered on Grandfather’s Nameday – the gold hauled up from the depths should be used to honour Thrór. He had a giant mould made, in the Gallery of Kings, where statues of all Longbeard Kings since Durin can be seen. The mould was to be filled with molten gold and the statue revealed at **Khebabnurtamrâg**[113], a feast day where we celebrate the skill of our smiths. Smaug attacked only days before the feast, which marks the end of winter. It might interest you to know that the statue would be fifteen dwarrow tall, and the gold for it would have barely made a dent in the seam. Most of it should be in the Great Forges, I reckon. I don’t think they had time to begin filling the mould.”

“Really, Uncle? There’s that much gold right beneath our feet?” Kíli gaped. Fíli elbowed him sharply.

“A bit further down that that, Kíli, but yes. Erebor was rightly named the richest Dwarven Kingdom of Middle Earth. It is the Treasury of Durin’s Folk, whereas the Iron Hills are known as the Armoury, those mines producing almost solely iron of the finest quality. Dáin’s steel is the best in the world, sold far and wide.”

The night passed with stories of the beauty of Erebor. The green stone of the mountain, unique in all of Arda, the massive seams of gold studded with clusters of gems, even the ingenious architecture and engineering of the Halls within the Mountain were praised. Later, Bilbo would consider it one of the last truly peaceful nights they had spent as a Company.

 

Their journey continued ever onwards. The view of the blackened ruins of Dale made them shudder. Even those who had not seen the city at the height of its power felt a chill travel up their spines at the sight, and Bilbo’s worry increased significantly. The stone buildings were still standing, but even from a distance they could see the devastation wrought by dragon-fire. The ring-wall that had been dotted by watchtowers had crumbled in places. The massive city gates, which had been left open by the fleeing Men was a gaping maw. The doors had long since burned or rotted away, leaving scorch marks on the walls. A few towers still stood, like fingers of bone reaching towards the bleak grey sky, silently condemning the watchers for bringing the dragon down upon the people of Dale. It was a subdued Company that camped on the Overlook that night. Bilbo wished for Gandalf’s presence more fervently than ever before. The dwarrow were fierce fighters and he did not doubt that they would protect him to the best of their abilities, but in his heart he knew that the wizard’s warning had not been idle platitudes. Something besides the pall of Smaug’s desolation lingered over the dreary landscape. He took to praying to Yavannah at night, hoping for the wizard’s swift return.

 

Balin’s prediction came true. Those with stone-sense beyond the average fell into periods of awe while they journeyed. Even those who had never been particularly gifted had moments where they would simply stare into thin air, focusing only on what they could feel from the surrounding stone and not where they put their feet. Kíli was especially unlucky in this regard, as he managed to fall over and tumble down a hillside because he had not been watching where he was going and the others had been too far to pull him back. After Óin had set his nose, grumbling about foolish princelings all the while, the decision was made to walk in pairs. Hopefully, that would keep injuries to a minimum. The slight misadventure did not deter Kíli, who continued to range out with the senses he had only just discovered. The elder dwarrow hid their smiles in their beards, watching the young warrior scampering around like a dwarfling with a shiny toy.

The nights were spent telling stories and sharing songs. The landscape did not affect them quite as badly as the oppressive gloom of Mirkwood, but stories bringing cheer and laughter were appreciated by every member of the Company. Thoughts of days long past kept them from dwelling on thoughts of the dragon waiting at the end of their journey, looming ever closer on the horizon as Durin’s Day approached. Dwalin’s stories of trying to complete his first shifts as a young guardsman-in-training, despite Thorin’s and Frerin’s best efforts at distracting him had them all laughing. The King grumbled when Dwalin waxed poetic about thin wires set up as tripwires along corridors he patrolled, or mischievous princelings attacking him from behind, but his eyes were fond when he looked at the bald warrior. Of course, Thorin had his revenge in due time, telling the story of one of Frerin’s infamous adventures, involving his cousin’s new battle-ram, some silk dye he had bought for their amad and an unlucky Dwalin getting in the middle. Balin’s chortles made the old dwarf fall off the log he had chosen as a seat when Thorin reached the point where Thraín and Fundin had happened by – just as Dwalin had collided with the goat, making Frerin lose his grip on the pot of dye he had been holding as he rode through the mountain. Dwalin’s mohawk had been pink in spots for months after that debacle. It devolved into a competition after that, stories of pranks gone awry spilling from every dwarrow. Even Bilbo chimed in with a few stories from his own childhood, scampering through the Shire with the other fauntlings.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks after they had waved goodbye to Laketown, the Company had made their way past the Front Gates, ominously open after Smaug’s fiery attack had broken through the heavy metal and left them dented. They had passed the old watchtower at Ravenhill, where the Raven Matriarch had nested in bygone days. They had set up camp in the western valley along the mountainside. According to the map, the hidden Door would be found along the north-western spur of the Mountain. That side of the Mountain had very little in way of adequate campgrounds, however, at least according to Thorin’s memories of childhood adventures and Balin’s vaguely annotated maps. Eventually, it was decided to make camp, and not move from the valley until they knew where to go. The ponies could not be dragged up and down the steep slopes, and the loose scree was treacherous to anyone on foot. Instead Bombur was left behind, taking care of the ponies and preparing food while the rest crawled all over the Mountain, searching for anything that could possibly be a doorway. Thorin had ordered them to split up, covering more ground, but it was slow going. Even for the dwarrow, who were used to moving through mountains and stony terrain, the unsteady ground was treacherous. When they trudged back to camp at night, several of the Company would be sporting minor cuts and bruises from falls or accidental rockslides. Óin’s salves and bandages saw quite a bit of use, especially among those dwarrow who were too excited to be as careful as the situation demanded. Their task was made more difficult by the fact that sheer cliff walls were not uncommon on a Mountain like Erebor. The first time Kíli came running back to camp claiming to have found it, the “Door” turned out to be too narrow to fit the description on the map. Thorin had scowled heavily, but the young dwarf’s excitement had lent new energy to the rest of the Company and they took up the search once more, shouting excitedly from pair to pair. On October 9th, just as the sun was setting, Nori and Bilbo found a spot that could very well be the door. Due to the lack of light, the Company decided to leave exploring the site further till the next morning. That night, the map was pulled out once more, leading to a massive argument about the accuracy of both the map and Nori’s drawings of where they had found the possible doorstep. Bilbo tried to interrupt a few times, lending the thief his support, but he was roundly ignored by the louder dwarrow.

In the morning, the Company made their way up the slopes, heedful of the treacherous ground. Nori was in the lead, stepping carefully on the loose rock as they climbed slowly. By midday, they had all made it to the stretch of mountainside that the burglar and the thief had agreed must be the door. Another fierce debate broke out, the ‘Ri’s and the Royal Durins agreeing that this must be the spot while Glóin, Óin and the Ur’s were less convinced. Those possessing the most accurate senses crawled all over the piece of wall, but the door had been disguised too well to find through such means. In the end, it came down to Thorin.

“I believe this is the Door,” the King said, tiredly, “We should re-camp below, and get as many supplies up here as we can during the next three weeks. You may continue to search the mountainside, but I have faith that Nori and Mister Baggins have found the right spot.” As their King ordered, so it would be. Once they made it back to Bombur and the camp, it was time for dinner, so moving camps would have to wait.

Getting their ponies and supplies to a spot below the door was precisely as difficult as Balin had feared. The journey that had taken them half a day plus their climb, had taken them a full day with all their packs. When they finally resettled in the narrow valley underneath the Doorstep, as they had named the small ledge that just barely fit all of them, night had fallen hours before. That night was a lot less cheerful than it should have been, and minor arguments and bickering could be heard around the fire. Tiredness plagued everyone, but eventually those who could sleep settled in to do so and those who had watch kept a wary eye on their surroundings.

“ **Masakhshami** , **amrâlimê**[114].” Dwalin rumbled, coming up behind Thorin, who sat, staring broodily into the fire and puffing on his pipe absentmindedly. “ **Jalai’gil kulhu huhud dê** [115].” He said, sitting beside the dark-haired dwarf. Dwalin pulled out his own pipe and settled in to wait. He had long since learnt that Thorin would speak when he had figured out what to say, and could only be rushed if he wanted less than half of what weighed on his Kurdel’s mind.

“ **Agridi…za-amshagi**[116] **? Zamaha’tini azafr Thrór?** **Bilbo zatamradi? Kamdrafi id-uslukh?** **Kanâgmâ katannikîn du azhârmâ?** ” Thorin shrugged. “ **Ammâ mangati, amrâlimê. Mudtuwê bintadkhiti diblal. Elrond ranaka zabirâ’bifi ni satâf Thrórul. Akhshami hu hugur**[117].” Only the late hour and the fact it was Dwalin asking would allow him to speak of his fears. His Kurdel had been at his side since before the fall of Erebor, through untold dangers and hardships, always Thorin’s stalwart protector and steadfast support. A fierce wave of love swept over him when Dwalin rumbled quietly, speaking words Thorin had not known he needed, but desperately wished to hear.

“ **Uthran Mamahdûm…** **Astû ablâkhul mi Elrond tarniki, amrâlimê. Zanâdrafi uslukh makalful**[118].” Dwalin continued, wrapping his hand around Thorin’s. The two sat staring into the night for a long time before making their way to their bedrolls.

 

* * *

 

Over the next two weeks, the Company managed to convince each other that they _had_ found the Door. They kept searching for other likely locations for another few days after their camp had been moved, but found no worthy contenders. In the evenings, stories and songs gave way to tense strategy sessions, and dreams of what they would spend the gold on once the dragon was defeated. Bilbo did not have much of an idea of what to expect from the Treasure hoard of Thrór, but he found Kíli’s plan of filling a tub with sapphires and pearls for a treasure bath to be quite ridiculous. When he quietly shared this thought with Balin, the old advisor had simply chuckled.

“But Bilbo, when the dragon is gone, Kíli will have gems enough for fifty jewel-baths,” he laughed, not unkindly. Such wealth was unimaginable to most of the dwarrow who had not lived in the splendour of Erebor, but Bilbo could not doubt Balin’s word and the plans for the treasure only grew more preposterous to his ears with each passing day.

Plans were made for fighting the dragon in most areas of Erebor. Thorin assumed that Smaug would be in the Treasury, but if it could be avoided, he would prefer not to get within range of Smaug’s claws. The tentative plan, with Durin’s Day fast approaching, was for Bilbo to go down, quiet and still, to find out whether the dragon was dead or asleep. When Bilbo returned – none of them entertained the idea that he might not, for fear of jinxing the endeavour, not even Bofur dared speak of that – the Company would follow him and spread out around the dragon. If Smaug slept, Kíli’s new arrows would be used to shoot him and hopefully the arrows would do some damage. The Cold iron was hard enough to pierce dragonhide, but it had a tendency to be brittle, and Thorin could only hope that he had not ruined Master Hanar’s careful work. If not, Kíli would save his arrows until the dragon woke from the others’ attacks. If they had to fight the dragon, they would attempt to lead him to the Great Forges, one of the only other places in Erebor where a dragon would seem small, and where they could quench his fire by using the massive water systems that had been installed by the engineers of Erebor in case the forge area caught fire. No one had any desire to fight inside the Treasury, where footing would be even more treacherous than the slopes they had traversed so agilely to find the Door. Gold coins and treasures thrown in haphazard piles would be too unstable and give the dragon a distinct advantage. In his heart of hearts, the Dwarf-King did not expect to survive the fight. As one of the only one carrying a weapon that should be effective against a dragon without relying on the Cold Iron, the responsibility for killing Smaug rested firmly on his shoulders.

As the days shortened towards the end of October, Thorin grew quieter, spending hours brooding and discussing tactics with Dwalin and Bifur, the most experienced warriors. Nori had applied himself to the task of poisoning as many weapons as he could get his hands on, including Dwalin’s warhammer, in the perhaps futile – and certainly fatalistic – hope that even if Smaug ate any one of them, he would be poisoned, even if the poison did not enter through the bloodstream. A lot of his time was spent in the company of Fíli and Bilbo, trying to teach the latter the skills to dodge the dragon’s claws and flames. If the arrows could not finish Smaug, they would have to resort to melee range attacks, and the hobbit had precious little experience. They did not have time to imbue Bilbo with anything approaching proficiency, but hopefully he would at least refrain from stabbing himself in the leg.

Three days before Durin’s Day, their plans were finalised. Bilbo had insisted that he be allowed to fulfil his contract by going down first and scouting out the place. The Company had grumbled, but eventually given in, although they would not hear of him trying to bring back any of the treasure. Balin, backed by Ori, had claimed that dragons were intimately familiar with their hoards and would notice if Bilbo snagged as much as a coin. They did not know if it was magic, but, according to the legends Ori had studied in Rivendell, stealing anything was a sure-fire way to wake the beast. The Company would await the Hobbit’s return. If the dragon slept, there was no reason to wake him by making the refreshed smell of Dwarf waft through the hallways.

 

* * *

 

Durin’s Day dawned bright and clear. The Company gathered on the Doorstep, anxiously waiting. A few times someone tried to start a conversation or share a song, but those paltry attempts soon petered out into watchful silence. Thorin felt – for the first time since they had fled Erebor and seen the Elvenking turn away – hopeful. This hope seemed to burn like fire in his heart and he stared at the stone as though his eyes could force the keyhole to reveal itself. Beside him sat Dwalin and Balin, who both remembered the feeling of their old home, one quietly apprehensive but hopeful, and the other filled with fearful longing. At first, Fíli and Kíli had sat, wrapped closely together in the morning chill under Thorin’s protective arm, but eventually, as the day wore on, the younger dwarrow’s patience ran thin and they scurried away. The Company spent the day quietly, none daring to disturb the three watchers. Glóin was born outside Erebor, and Óin barely remembered the halls, and the rest had never even seen the mountain. Possibly aside from Nori, but it had been from a distance during one of his longer trips away from Ered Luin.

“Do you think Gandalf will come? He said not to enter the Mountain without us.” Bilbo asked, hesitant to raise his voice and break the sombre silence of the group.

“He will not. Even if we could see him and wave him to our location, the wizard would have no time to climb up here, Master Baggins. We are alone.” Thorin said. The continued absence of the wizard, as well as the reminder of his warning, only added to his worries, but he could not let the Company see him faltering and fearful. He was their leader and he had to remain strong. Beside him, he felt Dwalin steadily press his leg against his thigh, giving no outward sign of the comfort he knew Thorin needed. Thorin pressed back, accepting and returning the offered reassurance of his Kurdel. Once more he thanked the Maker for sending him Dwalin, and cursed his own stubborn, romantic side for not letting him marry the extraordinary being at his side. Dwalin had never complained, not once, knowing exactly how Thorin felt, but he knew that Thorin’s continued refusal to marry anywhere but in Erebor had given Dwalin more than one sleepless night, mired in doubt. He had done his best to dispel them, but he knew that he had not always succeeded. It was neither his hear nor Dwalin’s that was in question, but he knew it hurt the big warrior that their people saw him simply as their King’s bed-mate. The birth of Fíli had simultaneously lessened and deepened those wounds; having an heir meant Thorin did not need to sire children, and the boys had always known that Dwalin was their Uncle just as much as Thorin himself. Thorin had often wondered, especially when they were small dwarflings, why they – and any other children Dwalin came across – had been so fascinated and fearless around the burly dwarf. Children never feared Dwalin, unlike their parents, who often pulled them away from his scary, scarred figure, and Dwalin loved them in return. Lost in thought, Thorin only just managed to accept his bowl of supper from Bombur, when Dwalin elbowed him sharply, thanking the dwarf absentmindedly.

Bombur had ensured that they had eaten well before sundown, and had even managed to sneak Bilbo an extra portion. He had been quietly horrified in Laketown when he overheard that Hobbits usually ate seven meals a day, despairing that they had been starving the small being. Bilbo’s girth had certainly lessened over their journey, but so had the others’ and Bombur had thought nothing of it, knowing that the two meals a day they had subsided on were alright for travel, if not for ordinary living. Bilbo had spent most of that day attempting to reassure the distraught cook, finally managing to calm him down with the help of Bofur, but Bombur had been sneaking him larger portions as often as he could since.

At last, sunset arrived. Everyone stared at the cliff while the sun slowly sank behind them. Thorin’s hand gripped the key so tightly he felt his knuckles might burst through his skin. Their shadows lengthened. The keyhole did not appear. When the sun finally fell behind the horizon Thorin could only stare. There was no keyhole.

“What did we miss, Balin.” Despair writ itself across the Dwarf-King’s stern features. He looked lost, like a dwarfling, and the wounded noise he made when he turned to look at the old advisor broke all their hearts. “The last Light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole…Where is the keyhole…what did we miss?” Thorin could barely hold back tears. He had been so _certain_. So _sure_ that this was the place.

“You tried, laddie. There’s nothing more to be done.” Balin sighed, trying to hold back his own tears. “We’ve lost the light.” Dwalin roared, smashing his axe against the wall, but to no avail. Nori, who had spent days searching the sheer cliff wall, tried once more to find something that might be a keyhole, but found nothing.

The key slipped from numb fingers as Thorin turned, gripping Dwalin’s wrist in an effort to anchor himself to something real. Slowly, he began climbing down from the Doorstep, back to the hobbled ponies. The Company followed silently. Ori was openly weeping and the others did not seem far from tears. Bilbo tried in vain to get them to stay, pulling on Balin’s sleeve and holding onto Bofur’s coat, but the dwarrow kept moving, leaving the little hobbit alone by the door.

Bilbo sank to his knees, “But it has to be here, the last light shone right here!” he cried. He closed his eyes, trying to find a different answer to the map’s words. Stupid puzzle. A riddle? A feathery wing hit the tip of his ear. Bilbo jumped in shock, crying out loudly as he sprang to his feet. The moon rose behind him, giving enough light to see a small brownish bird holding a snail in its beak. The bird looked at Bilbo, hopping around the rocky outcropping while it studied the strange creature. Apparently deciding that the hobbit was no threat, the small bird turned to the stone wall, knocking the snail’s shell against the rockface. The slight echoing sound pricked Bilbo’s ears. He looked up, at just the right moment for the moon to appear from behind a cloud and shine on the small plateau. Something glimmered on the wall. Bilbo gasped. “The keyhole!” he shouted, turning back to scream after his dwarrow. “The keyhole! The last light…it’s the light of the moon!” He looked around his feet, mumbling to himself, but he could not see the key Thorin had dropped. The small hobbit turned this way and that, muttering to himself, until – to his own abject horror – one of his feet found the key…and shot it straight towards the edge of the plateau. With a scream, the hobbit launched himself after the key, just as Thorin’s boot stomped down on the fleeing metal. A sigh of relief escaped Bilbo.

 

Thorin had heard the hobbit’s pleas as he walked away, but he could not find the heart to offer comfort to anyone. His nephews were clinging so tightly to each other that they might never let go, and he would have worried that his own grip would leave Dwalin with bruises if the warrior’s hand had not been just as tightly wound around his own. In his chest, his heart still beat, but he felt deadened. So much had been riding on this venture, so much hope was now lost. For a second, he toyed with the thought of simply throwing himself off the mountain or climbing through the smashed Front Gate and screaming his defiance at Smaug, but he knew that he could not follow the impulse. And then he heard the sweetest words he had been told since Kíli’s difficult birth: _The keyhole! The last light…it’s the light of the moon!_

 

He grasped the key between shaking fingers. Sharing one last look with Dwalin, the King turned to the Door and the Burglar. He almost wished he could think of something profound to say, but all his words had deserted him as the gravity of the moment made itself known. He pushed the key into the small hole in the wall. Inside the rock, the shifting of gears and tumblers could be heard.

The Door opened, bringing with it a draft of fetid air, the smell of dragon faint but powerful in their noses. Behind him, Balin blanched and Thorin knew intimately the memories that would be on the forefront of his oldest friend’s mind. Putting a hand on the hobbit’s slim shoulder, Thorin squeezed once.

“Good luck, Master Baggins. Remember the plan.” Bilbo nodded, giving them a tremulous smile as he turned to face the darkened hallway. Ori handed him a fat candle, lighting the wick with a twig from the fire.

 

###### notes:

[110] 9th month of the Shire Calendar. August 23rd to September 21st. Winterfilth(10th month) lasts until October 21. Bilbo’s birthday is given as Halimath 22, which is September 13th.

[111] Orefinders

[112] He is swimming in gold and silver, no question.(Here Bifur is using an idiomatic phrase to indicate Bofur’s enjoyment, although it is contextually true, Bofur’s mind is swimming in the rivers of precious metal he can feel deep below ground)

[113] Forge Day Feast. The exact date of Smaug’s attack is unknown, only the year TA 2770, so I’ve decided that he attacked just at the beginning of Afnu’khazâd, the month of two dwarrow(This refers to the two Dwarven survivors after the death of Thingol in FA 502). The Feast marks the end of the winter season and falls on the 19th day of Afnu’khazâd.

[114] You are worried, my love.

[115] Tell me what is wrong

[116] I fear…will I become mad? Will I become ill like Thrór? Will Bilbo die? Can we kill the dragon? Can our people return to our home?

[117] We are so close, beloved. My heart does not rest easily. Elrond thought I would follow in Thrór’s footsteps, I worry he is right

[118] Darer who is blessed (Thorin’s inner name is a hope. Thorin’s strong personality is the largest reason for the success of the Blue Mountain settlement. He dares dream of things others would not attempt.) …You are stronger than Elrond thinks. We will kill the cursed dragon together.


	15. Treasure and Torment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entering Erebor and facing an old Enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, the POV changes/timeskips should be marked with lines, but it is intentionally left very jumpy, trying to illustrate the chaos of battle accurately. You'll also find a few of Smaug's thoughts, and much of the dialogue is taken from the film, though it has been slightly reordered to fit the story.  
> This chapter is the first half of the Smaug fight, as the original chapter was almost 12k words.

“I know this stone…” Thorin breathed, awed by the feeling of _home_ that enveloped him. “Erebor. Do you remember it, Balin? Chambers filled with gold.”

“You did it, lad. You actually did it.” Balin whispered, almost in disbelief. “Herein lies the Kingdom of Durin’s Folk. May the Heart of the Mountain unite all Dwarrow in defence of this home.” He read, pointing to the inscription on the wall. Bilbo reached out to touch the carved relief below it. “The King’s Throne.” Balin explained hoarsely. “And the Arkenstone.”

“What is it?”

“It is the Heart of the Mountain, the King’ Jewel,” Balin said. “A large, white jewel that seemed to glow with an inner light.”

“It’s why you are here, Master Baggins. We need the stone to summon the armies of the seven clans.” Thorin grumbled, running his hand slowly over the green stone wall.

“Didn’t Ilsamirë call it cursed?” Bilbo wondered, but Thorin simply scoffed.

“That half-elven girl doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” He huffed. _Thranduil would have made sure to paint himself innocent in his dealings with Thrór. Blaming the Arkenstone is just the sort of petty move he would make_ , Thorin grumbled to himself. Bilbo nodded slowly, a twinge of unease settling like lead in his stomach.

 

* * *

 

Walking into the silent mountain was the most nerve-wracking thing Bilbo had ever done. Even standing before Azog, as the only thing between his King and death, had not been quite so terrifying. Probably because it had been a split-second decision made in the midst of battle with adrenaline pumping in his veins, and this had been an hour long in arriving, but known and anticipated right from the beginning, all the way back in Bag End. One last desperate look back was all he allowed himself, catching a final glimpse of Bofur’s encouraging but fearful face and his ridiculous hat, which he had somehow managed to hold on to even through all their adventures. Balin had told him that there was no shame in turning back from his task, but Bilbo’s stubbornness had proven to be equal to that of any Dwarven naysayer on the topic. He would be the one to enter the mountain and check if the dragon slept, and that was the end of it. The hobbit was not blind to the fact that he held the hopes of an entire people on his shoulder, the weight only increasing if he let himself consider the added hopes of the Eldar and the Men of Laketown. Bilbo made his way down the stone hallway on feet that had never before been so silent, as if the very mountain was cradling each step, trying to help him stay undiscovered. The small candle burned steadily once he had passed the first corner, but when he got to the Treasury the flame flickered. Bilbo hardly noticed, distracted by the veritable sea of gold stretching out before him. The stories of the vastness of Thrór’s hoard had not done it justice. The candle flickered again. This time, the hobbit saw it, holding his breath as he watched the flame. In his head, he counted, every two minutes, the flame would flicker. The dragon was still alive. Casting his eyes back to the Treasury, Bilbo did his best to spot Smaug, but all he saw were mounds and heaps of golden treasure. Then coins fell, slowly, rolling down a minor hill with small plinks as they hit other coins. Bilbo finally realised the sheer scale of what he was looking at. Smaug’s one nostril, which had made the coins fall with a particularly loud snore, was roughly the size of his head. That meant that what he had taken for a hill there was in fact the dragon’s head, there was his body… slowly, Bilbo followed the curves of the supine dragon with his eyes. Smaug turned slightly, but did not wake, and Bilbo fled.

 

* * *

 

Outside the mountain, the Dwarrow were getting frantic. They had not set a time for Bilbo’s return, and worry ate at them. Finally, Thorin grumbled an order at Dwalin, who scowled, but held back the young princes when they wanted to follow the King into the Mountain.

“You will stay out here. Thorin will bring back the Burglar. Or he will answer to me,” Dwalin growled, his voice invoking thoughts of hours upon hours on the practise fields if his orders went disobeyed. It was a voice and a punishment the young princes knew well from their childhood in Ered Luin and they immediately ceased protesting. They knew he loved them dearly, and freely returned the sentiment, but when their Uncle spoke in his ‘Mister Dwalin’-voice, there was no disobedience allowed. Even those who had not had the pleasurable – or possibly horrid, depending on one’s view of being soundly defeated time and again in the rings – experience of Dwalin as an instructor of weaponry felt compelled to obey him. Dwalin’s unofficial status as Thorin’s Consort made him second-in-command automatically, but his skills and experience lent him an air of authority that made even those unaware of his position in the King’s heart follow his orders. In Ered Luin he was the Captain of the Guard, a position of great responsibility, tasked with the safety of not just the Royal Durins, but also the common folk. Even Nori’s ilk did not question the word of Dwalin Fundinul, and since his promotion to Captain, the level of crime in Thorin’s Halls had dropped significantly. The criminals knew him as a hard but fair Captain, willing to listen to the accused as much as the accuser, which was a rare trait among the Guard before he had taken over the position of Shumrozbid. 

 

* * *

 

Heart hammering in his throat, the hobbit ran back through the hallway. In his hand, the candle sputtered and blew out, but the corridor still seemed dimly lit or perhaps his eyes had adjusted to the darkness and Bilbo did not falter. He kept his feet as quiet as possible, while maintaining the speed of abject fear. As he turned a corner, he smacked into something hard and unyielding. Hands came up to steady his shoulders, and the frightened hobbit looked up into the blue eyes of Thorin Oakenshield.

“Did you see the Arkenstone? Did you wake the dragon?” the King asked quietly, but the hobbit could only stare. Shaking his head mutely, the hobbit sighed when the King repeated the questions, managing a feeble, stammered ‘N-no.’ into Thorin’s chest. He felt more than heard the Dwarf’s sigh of relief, before Thorin dragged him back to the entrance.

 

* * *

 

“The Beast yet sleeps. Bring our packs inside the Door and leave them in the tunnel.” Thorin barked. The Company scrambled to follow orders. Dwalin punched him on the shoulder, but Thorin took it as his expression of relief, rather than condemnation. He smiled happily, knocking his forehead against Dwalin’s before shouldering his own pack.

As they walked down the tunnel, they reached a small anteroom, hung with several dusty and dark tapestries, which Bilbo had passed without noticing, simply continuing straight across, through the open doorway on the opposite side of the chamber.

“I remember this tapestry… but it was in my room?” Thorin muttered, reaching out to touch the faded ancient fabric. A cloud of dust rose from the tapestry, but Thorin just waved it away, searching the weave intently.

“What do you mean?” Fíli frowned, while Dori – arguably the most well-versed in the topic of weaving among those present – began examining the tapestry beside him.

“I think this hides a passage to the Royal Quarters,” Thorin mused, still looking at the tapestry that depicted the Family Tree for the Royal House of Durin. “If I could only remember.” He frowned, “Amad used to tell me a story about the tapestry in my rooms.”

“There are… inconsistencies in the weave,” Dori said quietly, still examining his own tapestry. “Nori, you know the knot-language better than I... does that look like a door marker?” The mithril-haired Dwarf pointed to something in a corner of the fabric. It was made to look like a rune, spelling out what the tapestry depicted – ‘Yavannah’s Garden’ – but when Nori leaned in, he nodded.

“Yes. I’ve never seen knots used like this, and it’s only obvious when you’re this close that the knots were woven into the very fabric of the tapestry,” he mused. “In my professional opinion, this tapestry hides a door, leading to something like ‘Yavannah’s Garden’ as the title states, though I don’t know what it could mean. Did Erebor have gardens?” around him, the rest of the Company shrugged. 

Thorin kept running his hand over the aged fabric, accidentally catching a few loose threads with his fingers. The tapestry moved. Thorin pressed a little harder on the rune in the corner and a small door swung open. “I guess Nori is right to think that the other ones also conceal passages,” he said, looking around the small room. He wanted to explore, but the dragon was waiting and this childhood bedtime story come to life would have to wait.

“Where would they lead?” Kíli asked.

“Probably the more important areas of the mountain. My grandfather often had a way of showing up in places without being seen walking there. Perhaps he used these passages to do so,” Thorin mused as they kept creeping along the hallway that led to the Treasury.

 

* * *

 

 

Smaug chuckled. The little thief who smelled like Dwarf though he wasn’t one had fled. He wondered what sort of creature it was, but it was merely idle curiosity. The little thief had left without taking any of the treasure, something that rather puzzled the dragon. He was unused to beings who could resist the lure of his enchantments. That alone was worth letting the little thief run back to his dwarrow and let him lure the small morsels back to his waiting maw. Smaug smiled smugly, rustling the treasure above him. The smell of dwarrow was wafting through the corridors. He wondered idly where they were coming from, but in truth it hardly mattered. He knew what they were here for, after all. The Arkenstone. He had heard the ravens chattering in the woods on his last outing, and even though that had been many years ago, he had heard of the death of the former mountain-king. Smaug had laughed himself silly; Thrór deciding to go have a look at Moria… practically suicide by orc. The ensuing revenge-war was a bloodbath and the subsequent disappearance of Thraín meant there was only one Dwarf who could be sending thieves into his Mountain.

Sinuously twining his way through the treasure throve, Smaug smiled to himself. He could hear the steps of iron-capped boots on the green stone of the mountain. Thorin Oakenshield was coming. He wondered if royal dwarf would taste different than other dwarrow. He hadn’t the pleasure when he took the mountain, which really was a shame, he felt.

 

* * *

 

 

The Company snuck towards the Treasury. They were as quiet as possible, and, considering that they wore iron boots on a floor of stone, that was very quiet indeed. Not quite as quiet as a Hobbit, but still very quiet indeed. Reaching the door to the Treasury, Iglishmêk signs were flashed around the group, finalizing positions. Kíli would stay by the door, while the rest of them spread out along the walls.

 

* * *

 

 

Smaug smiled to himself, burrowing deeper into the golden hoard. He could _smell_ them. Their fear. _Delicious_.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Awake,_ Dwalin signed.

 _Yes,_ Thorin replied.

They both hid their hands from the rest of the group, as they made their way side by side around the room. They had been heading to the farthest end of the room, heading to the north end. Thorin’s eyes roamed fitfully across the gold, but his nerves were only visible to Dwalin because he knew him so well.

 _Plan,_ he signed.

 _That. Pretend. Sleep._ Thorin replied _. We. Attack first_. _Lead. Forge._ Dwalin nodded. His axes were ready in his hands, as he kept watching the piles of gold warily for any sign of Smaug attacking. Bilbo had pointed out where the lumps he had identified as parts of the dragon were, and they were heading for the end with the head.

 

* * *

 

 

Kíli was straining his eyes. Beside him, Bilbo hovered anxiously. Having the best eyes in the Company, it had been decided that the two would work together to spot Smaug’s possible weak spots.

 

* * *

 

 

Smaug laughed to himself. They thought they could surround him? In his own hoard?! For a moment he briefly admired Oakenshield’s arrogance. It was almost…draconic. For a lesser race at least. He wondered which one he should eat first. Oakenshield might be more delicious, but it would be more fun to watch him see the others perish. His screams would be so sweet… delicious. Decision made, Smaug laughed.

“I see you have returned, Little Thief… and you have brought delicious food for me.” He rumbled, still covered with gold as he turned, sinuously wending his way through the piles until he was facing the smell of the scared little thing. “I suppose I should thank you for bringing me Oakenshield… much easier than having to hunt the little would-be usurper down myself… what did he promise you for your aid in this venture, hmm?” Smaug was having fun. The little thief was shaking with fear, stepping back into the shadow of the dwarf beside him. “Treasure? This treasure is not his to give, little thief, it is my hoard now and I am King under the mountain. Did they tell you, little thief? Did they tell you how I ate his people, like a wolf among sheep?”

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo was terrified. The dragon was invisible under the treasure, but they could see him moving piles of gold. The Company froze instantly the moment Smaug spoke. Bilbo’s entire body was shaking. He caught sight of Thorin and Dwalin, signing rapidly, but he had never been taught proper Iglishmêk and did not understand.

Suddenly Bilbo was struck by the same kind of recklessness that had let the small, soft, untrained Hobbit stand between the mighty Pale Orc and his King.

“I have indeed heard the tales of your magnificence, O Smaug the Unassessably Wealthy. I have journeyed far to gaze upon your splendour. I did not believe the tales of your majesty. Travelling with dwarrow of a like mind to my own was the only way for one such as I to reach your glorious lair, O Smaug the Terrifying.” Bilbo said shakily. The dragon laughed cruelly.

“And do you believe them now?”

“Truly, the tales and songs fall utterly short of your enormity, O Smaug the Stupendous.”

“Do you think flattery will keep you alive?” Smaug asked, sounding genuinely curious.

“No- no, no.” he stammered, shaking like a leaf. Kíli put an arrow to his string, ready to fire.

 “No, indeed. You seem familiar with my name, as the puny mortals call it, but I don’t remember smelling your kind before. Who are you, and where do you come from, may I ask?”

 

* * *

 

“I- I come from under the hill.” The little Thief said. Smaug revelled in the scent of fear surrounding him. The rest of the dwarrow had stopped moving, frozen around the edges of the room.

“Underhill?” he asked. The Thief was intriguing for the moment, and Smaug had not talked to anyone in a long time. He could spare a few moments to sate his curiosity before he killed them all. The chatter of the Ravens – while it brought him news from the world outside his hoard – got tiresome quickly. He usually roasted the tiresome ones.

“And under hills and over hills my path has led. And, and, through the air.” The Thief stammered. Smaug flicked his tongue out, tasting the small creature’s fear. So sweet… “I am he who walks in darkness with the one between worlds.” _A riddler? Pity he chose to accompany Oakenshield_ , Smaug thought. He would have made an amusing servant; at least for a little while.

“Impressive titles,” though they were most likely metaphorical, he could not smell lies on the little Thief, which was interesting, “what else do you claim to be?”

“I am...luck-wearer.”

“ _Lovely_ ; go on.” Smaug smiled. Dinner and entertainment, delivered straight to his hoard, he should almost thank the little Dwarf for bringing him such a treat. _Amusement was so rarely found in a hoard… dragons tended to eat those they kept for company sooner or later,_ he mused. He vaguely recalled that his mother had managed to keep her Little Morsel alive for almost thirty years, but as she had been killed by elves while her pet yet lived, that was hardly a standard for their race. He shook off the thoughts of his mother’s ignoble end. She had tried to kill him once, as a hatchling, after all, so really, the pesky elves had done him a favour by killing her. Smaug had only grown large enough to be assured of winning against the older female in recent centuries, and three thousand years was a long time to wait for revenge – even for a dragon. His attention returned to the peculiar little thief. He might prefer a different title, but Smaug knew that he had been Oakenshield’s intended Thief, so that was his name.

“Riddle-maker.”

“Riddles? Now that is interesting. And what about your little dwarf friends? Why are they hiding?” As if he could not smell them, hear them moving. He chuckled. The little thief squeaked. _Yes_ , he thought, _I will keep that one for as long as it amuses me_.

“Dw- Dwarrow? No, no, no dwarrow here. You’ve got that all wrong.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, luck-wearer. They sent you in here to do their dirty work while they skulked about outside… I heard you.”

“Truly, you are mistaken, O Smaug, Chiefest, and Greatest of Calamities.” Really, the little Thief had managed to refrain from lying so far; Smaug was almost disappointed to smell it now.

“Silver-tongued Thief. You have nice manners, for a small thief and a liar. I know the smell and taste of dwarf. They are drawn to treasure like flies to dead flesh. Your words are pretty lies,” Smaug hissed. “Did you think I did not know this day would come? That a pack of canting dwarrow would come crawling back to the Mountain? The King under the Mountain is dead. This is my hoard and I will not part with a single coin, not one piece!” Smaug roared, bursting from the gold with a blast of fire. He aimed slightly left of the thief and his Dwarven companion, making the small creatures throw themselves to the side to avoid the plume of heat. The Dwarf, armed with a bow and arrow, fell off the small overlook, landing hard on the cool gold. The Dwarf did not move. Smaug grinned, looking at the cowering thief. “So, Thief,” he spat sibilantly, “Which of your companions shall I devour first? I’ll save Oakenshield for last, let him watch as I clean my teeth with the bones of his kin,” he smiled, showing the small thing his massive teeth. No one – if Dragons had been given to such conversation – had ever accused him of lacking a sense of dramatic flair. “Perhaps the little archer?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Don’t you dare, Worm!” Thorin screamed from his position behind the dragon. Smaug was still mostly covered by golden treasure, but his head was level with Bilbo. Thorin took a few steps forward, only to be pulled back by Dwalin’s hard yank moments before Smaug’s tail hit where he had been standing. It would have swept him up hard if he had remained, but Thorin had little care for anything besides getting to Kíli swiftly. Kíli was certainly unconscious, and the two dwarrow could hear Fíli bellowing defiance from another corner, where Bifur was holding him back from following Thorin’s example.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo was terrified. He couldn’t rightly figure out which option terrified him more; Kíli being eaten or himself roasted by the dragon’s fire. He could see the dwarrow moving as stealthily as possible towards the main Treasury Door. The Hobbit remembered that Thorin had wanted to lure the beast out of the Treasury, but he had no idea how the Dwarf-King was going to accomplish that feat. It seemed the rest of the Company were in on the plan, however, and the Hobbit cursed his lack of sign knowledge.

“Truly, O Smaug the Stupendous, a Dwarf alone is naught more than a mouthful. The archer is too skinny to be a proper appetizer, O Lord Under the Mountain,” he babbled, as he tried not to bring Smaug’s attention to the way Nori was making his way towards Kíli or the way the Company was making their way to the main exit. This was worse than the Trolls by far. There was no figure in grey darting through the shadows to help him this time.

“Too cowardly to face me, Smaug? Preferring your meals small and unarmed?” Thorin bellowed. Bilbo squeaked fearfully. Smaug turned his head slightly, letting the Hobbit escape from his piercing gaze. Nori had grabbed Kíli while the dragon was distracted. Bilbo joined him, dragging the unconscious Kíli back into the tunnel that led to the secret door. “You have grown complacent and fat lying here. Scared of-” Thorin shouted, barely escaping a fate of fiery death when Dwalin pulled him through the Treasury Door.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo led the way back to the tunnel, but on the threshold Nori turned back, with a flick of his wrist throwing a small blade straight into Smaug’s mouth. His most potent poison coated the small dagger, and though Nori did not have much hope as to its efficacy on a dragon, he felt obligated to try either way. The knife had been made by an Erebor survivor and using it against Smaug felt like poetic justice. He did not stay to see the knife cut into Smaug’s lip, but the plume of fire the dragon sent after them in retaliation almost singed his hair.

 

* * *

 

 

“I can smell you, Little Thief! You and the archer and another dwarf. I hear your hearts, beating with fear!” Smaug roared. “You know your quest is futile. Oakenshield has weighed your life and found it wanting. He seeks the Arkenstone, I know. A pretty bauble… I’m almost tempted to let you have it. If only to see him suffer. Watch him be devoured by its beauty. Watch it drive him…mad. But I think not. Goodbye, Thief.” He breathed a roaring plume of fire after the fleeing dwarrow. Smaug shook himself free of the treasure, barrelling towards the door and chasing the escaping dwarrow.

“You think to challenge me, Oakenshield?” Smaug hissed. He would show the little rat. “I am invulnerable. I kill when I wish, where I wish. My armour is iron! My teeth are swords! My wings are a hurricane! I will kill every last one of your puny companions, roast them in their armour, and cook them in my fire! I AM DEATH!” he roared, coming through the door. The corridor was empty. “Hiding from your fate, are you? It matters not; the Darkness is coming. It will spread to every corner of the land.” He could hear their boots crashing against the stone. They were heading deeper into the Mountain, a different level to the Treasury, but he knew his lair well. He had not spent the last 140 years asleep. Oakenshield was leading them to the Great Forges, the once-living heart of the Mountain.

 

* * *

 

 

Kíli groaned. Hooking a finger in the neck of Bilbo’s jacket, Nori made the Burglar stop. The Hobbit was panting with the exertion of their run, but looked back fearfully. Nori grinned mischievously.

“This room has several passages, Bilbo.” Nori left Kíli leaning against a wall, studying the tapestries on either side of them. The tunnel that led to the secret door was ahead, but Thorin had sworn that there were other doorways connected to this room, as a way of reaching the Door from places other than the Treasury. Finding the tapestry which seemed most likely to lead to the forges – it was a picture of Mahal in his forge, after all – Nori began looking for the trigger. The Hobbit busied himself trying to wake up the slightly groggy Kíli, and Nori breathed a sigh of relief that the young prince had not been badly injured. Apparently there were some uses for the thick skulls of the Durin Line, Nori chuckled mentally.

 

* * *

  

Most visitors believed that the Throne Room was in the true centrum of Erebor, but it was merely made to look that way through clever architecture and engineering. The real hub of the Lonely Mountain, the Great Forges, was where life pulsed the strongest. The Throne Room sat several levels above the Forges, which, when lit, supplied the Mountain with warmth throughout. When Thrór had first taken control of Erebor, after leaving the Grey Mountains, the Forges had been in a different part of the Mountain entirely, near the top. Thrór’s decision to move it down into the depths had been seen as peculiar, because while the new location was closer to the mines, it was also farther from the markets and the trader’s halls. Over time, the wisdom of Thrór’s decision became clear. With clever piping and vents built into the walls and floors of Erebor’s halls, the Great Forges could heat the living quarters of all of Erebor’s inhabitants. While Erebor’s winters were slightly less harsh than those suffered in Ered Mithrim, the Lonely Mountain was often blanketed by winter storms and snow. The Mountain, at least underground, remained a fairly constant cool temperature, but the upper reaches froze quickly. Venting heat upwards allowed the Dwarrow to use accommodations towards the top of the Mountain year-round, making it possible for more dwarrow to live in the mountain. The parts of the mountain that had held the old forges and tiny workshops was extensively remodelled and turned into a light – for dwarrow were keen mirror-makers and lamp-wrights – airy and spacious Library, made to rival the lost **Mazalufahn**[119] in Khazad-dûm.

 

As the Company made their way to the Great Forges, they left footprints in the dust. As they passed through long-abandoned hallways, skirting rubble the dragon had scattered on his violent way to the Treasury, they came across several rooms filled with old bones. These were those of Smaug’s victims, who had not had time to flee, or who had been too deep to make it past the dragon once he gained the mountain.

“So many corpses,” Fíli whispered sorrowfully as he caught sight of a mother cradling her child against her chest. Both mother and child were reduced to bones, even their clothing having rotted away over the long years. They could see where the mother’s beads had fallen, a few still holding wispy strands of colourless hair, in a halo around the empty skull.

“Erebor was home to at least ten thousand dwarrow, Fíli,” his Uncle replied hoarsely. “So few of us made it out… Many died in the attack, but we knew that several thousand – miners, smiths, treasurers, and the like – were left behind. Smaug’s body smashed the rock where he did not fit, destabilising several major thoroughfares. The North Mines were entirely blocked, none who worked there escaped. Either they died of hunger or they-,” and here, he gulped, sharing a dark look with Balin, who shook his head sadly.

“I know many would have preferred to speed their way to the Halls of Waiting rather than suffocate in the depths.” Balin said quietly. Behind him, Ori gasped. “When this is all over, we will honour them, lad,” Balin whispered, squeezing the young Scribe's arm. Thorin nodded, mentally swearing that the monument for those who perished in Erebor would be the grandest his kin had ever seen – but not made of gold. They would collect the dead, give them their names back and inscribe them in the green stone of their home before they were burned and the ashes poured into the Soul-Stones. He could not help but think of the great pyres after Azanulbizar. Those who had died there were known as the Burned Dwarrow, and though they had died with honour, the fact that they had not been returned to the stone was a wound that would never heal in the eyes of the survivors.

Behind them, they could hear the dragon crashing through the halls. Ahead lay the Great Forges, once a place of comfort and joy to any smith, but now the Great Forges were empty and cold. No hammers rung in the depths, no songs sounded with happy smiths keeping the beat on their anvils. The Great bellows were silent, and, though the giant melting pots were full, the forges were dark. What had been one of the liveliest workplaces in the mountain had turned into a silent mausoleum. Thorin could not help a morbid comparison to the Song of Durin he had performed in Thranduil’s Halls. At least they might have a chance at defeating the evil that had taken root in Erebor, where he believed Moria forever lost to them. In truth, he had not wanted to go to Khazad-dûm, but when Thrór’s body had been dumped at the doorstep, headless and with Azog’s mark branded into the forehead of his severed head, there had been no choice. Thrór had been determined to regain Moria, and, although Thorin might have been able to sway his father from the purpose if Thrór had died peacefully, there was nothing to be done. Thraín had been filled with the fire of vengeance and the souls of their people stirred with a greater wrath than that which Smaug had inspired, simply because Thrór had been a symbol of all they had lost already. Losing him in such an ignoble fashion felt like losing Erebor all over again, and so Thorin had gone to war with his father and his kin. Looking at Fíli, reminded once more of the laughing brother he had lost in Azanulbizar, Thorin saw the lines of strain on his Heir’s face and knew they mirrored the ones on his own. Had Kíli survived his fall? Had Nori managed to get him and Bilbo safely away from the dragon? The worries ate at him, and he could only wish fervently and pray to the Great Maker that Fíli was not about to share in his grief, watching his younger brother slaughtered before him, helpless to stop it.

They were taking shortcuts to reach the Forges ahead of Smaug, who had to stick to the larger hallways. They could hear the dragon roaring, echoing through the stone, but the words were indistinguishable.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo trembled against Kíli, helping Nori keep the younger dwarf upright. Kíli was groggy and listed sideways at times, but was otherwise unharmed. Bilbo couldn’t help but think wryly of the time he had been the groggy one under Goblintown, once more thanking the Valar that Ilsamirë had found him, rather than some unsavoury manner of creature like a goblin. The small cut on Kíli’s temple that had bled so profusely had clotted, leaving him with a grisly trail of blood down his face and neck, soaking into his tunic. Bilbo had fretted, but Nori had assured him that Kíli was in no more danger than the rest of them, as long as they could keep him from being eaten, at least. The dwarf had a concussion, Nori said, so certainly that Bilbo could not argue, but would be fine eventually. It meant that Kíli would probably be unable to shoot with any level of success or accuracy, however, so the part of the plan where they relied on the archer to bring down Smaug would have to be scrapped. They moved slowly through the tunnel. No hallways branched off the main path, though it curved and twisted several times, leaving them walking in the wrong direction until it turned again, but always heading downwards.

 

 

###### notes:

[119] The Chamber of Knowledge


	16. Blood and Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does one kill a dragon in his Lair?

“He’ll see us, sure as death.” Dwalin muttered, as they turned a corner and saw Smaug stalking down one of the main thoroughfares. They would need to cross his path to reach the Forges. Pausing by the bodies of their fallen kin had given the dragon the few minutes he needed to overtake them, and their shortcuts had not bought them enough time. His hands went to the hilt of his axes, running his calloused fingers over them for reassurance. He would go down fighting, protecting his Kurdel with his last breath if he could.

“Not if we split up.” Thorin said quietly, looking at Dwalin with a plea in his eyes. The big warrior stiffened, already knowing what Thorin was asking him to do. Thorin’s fingers wrapped themselves around his wrist as the King pushed the keeper of his heart towards his nephew. The elder Durin was more capable of keeping himself safe than the younger, no matter how well trained. Fíli had never been in more combat than their orc skirmishes and Thorin would never let harm come to the lad if he could help it. He was almost thankful that Kíli had been knocked out so early. Even though they had not been able to see Nori drag him off, Dwalin had faith that the wily dwarf would manage to keep all three of their missing Company alive. Nori always found a way out of whatever scrapes he got himself into and Bilbo was clever, even though he was a soft creature and hardly able to fight with his little letter opener. The Hobbit was also fiercely loyal, Dwalin thought, and he had adopted all of them almost from the moment they had left Bag End. It had taken them a while to see the little one’s true value, but Dwalin had been one of the first Bilbo had won over. When he realised that the hobbit had had no idea of their arrival, he had seen his behaviour that evening in a different light. Bilbo had been fussy, but not unkind, and he had not tossed them all out for invading his house without so much as a by your leave. He had not even protested Dwalin taking what he later learned had been Bilbo’s own supper and graciously offered the dwarf more food. Dwalin knew he could be intimidating, and he had layered on the menace as thickly as he could that evening, uncomfortable letting Thorin and the boys enter a place he had not searched for danger. Bilbo had been frightened, but he had still been polite and courteous, something Dwarrow rarely found in other races. Dwalin nodded once, and read the relief in Thorin’s eyes. He never wanted to leave Thorin’s side, but Fíli no longer had his brother to watch out for him, and Dwalin trusted no one with the safety of _his_ royals as well as he did himself – nor did Thorin, he knew.

 

* * *

 

 

“Thorin, we’ll never make it.” Balin protested, keeping his vehement voice low to avoid alerting Smaug to their presence. They did not know how sharp Smaug’s sense of hearing was, and though his sense of smell might be as much help to the dragon, Balin could only affect his impact on one of them. He gripped Dwalin’s rough fingers and squeezed them once. He had seen the silent exchange between his King and his brother, and he too knew that what Thorin had really asked – it might as well have been an order, but Thorin would never order his love away – ‘Keep my boy safe, Dwalin. Take him home if I do not make it.’ Balin hoped it would not come to a point where Dwalin would have to follow his King’s last wish, but he was clever enough to realise that there was a very real possibility that it would come to that in the end.

“Some of us might,” Thorin said grimly. “Lead him to the forges. We kill the dragon. If this is to end in fire, then we will all burn together.” The Company looked at each other. Balin could see them resigning themselves to death this night, but by Mahal, they would take Smaug with them. A powerful sense of imminent victory came over him and he grinned sharply at Thorin. Even if it cost them all their lives, reclaiming Erebor for their kin would be worth any sacrifice.

 

* * *

 

 

When they made it to the door to the forges, Nori sighed. Looking back at Bilbo, the Hobbit nodded once, and the two shared a silent look at Kíli. Mutual common sense made them leave the groggy archer in the tunnel, with strict orders to stay hidden. Kíli complained, but considering that he could not stand unsupported, and the fact that he was seeing four companions rather than two, he had to admit that he would be nothing more than a liability and a hindrance in the upcoming fight. Even the infamous Durin stubbornness had to admit defeat in the face of such overwhelming logic. With a muttered oath, he pressed his bow and arrows into Bilbo’s hands.

“Uncle isn’t a bad shot. If he gets the chance,” he muttered, eyes blazing with determination, “make sure he takes it.” Nori nodded, and Kíli slid down the wall to rest on the floor with a heartfelt groan.

The thief and the burglar opened the tapestry-concealed door.

 

* * *

 

Thorin, Balin, and Óin went first, running across a thin bridge. Smaug’s head reared up when he spotted them.

“This way!” Thorin yelled. With a great roar, Smaug pursued them.

“Flee, flee! Run for your lives! There is nowhere to hide.” He hissed, grinning at them. Smoke curled lazily from between his lips, he made to swipe them off the bridge with his long claws, but another sound distracted him. 

“Behind you!” Dori yelled, bringing Smaug’s head swivelling towards them. Dori, Ori, and Bombur were running on another bridge and yelling obscenities towards the dragon. Dori looked torn between pride and despair at Ori’s vocabulary; the young dwarf had definitely picked up quite a few curses from Mister Dwalin during their journey. The long serpentine neck stretched as Smaug lunged towards them. The three dwarrow turned and ran, letting the first three escape to the other side of the bridge. “Come on! Ori!” Dori grabbed his brother’s knitted collar, yanking the younger dwarf along behind him. Bombur ran ahead, once more demonstrating that his size – though diminished from the first time they had been running from Orcs – had no impact on his speed.

“Hey, you! Here!” Dwalin bellowed, as he and Fíli made their way across another bridge, a level above Dori’s group on the other side of the dragon. Smaug turned, jumping into the air at them. They barely managed to reach the dubious safety of a tunnel mouth before his claw landed where they had just stood. Breathing hard, Dwalin pushed Fíli ahead of him, keeping up their mad dash until they could turn a corner. He might never have fought a dragon before, but he had realised something as Smaug’s great head swivelled in his direction. Distracting the dragon was all well and good, but they were trying to outrun his fiery breath too, and that would move a lot faster than his teeth, Dwalin feared. When no burst of heat followed their hurried footsteps, Dwalin slowed down slightly. The corner they had turned would protect them, and he tried to remember where the tunnel they had picked would lead.

Glóin, Bifur, and Bofur used Dwalin’s distraction to flee across the bridge Thorin’s group had also taken. Just as they dove into the tunnel on the other side of the chasm, Smaug’s fiery plume of death followed. The three Dwarrow kept running, adrenaline and fear giving their feet wings as they tried to avoid becoming Dwarf roast. With an angry roar, the dragon spun, breathing flames into all the surrounding tunnels.

Bifur was swearing loudly – needing no translation, and, if he had had the breath to do so, Glóin would have agreed with the Cantor’s sentiment – as he felt the stone beneath his feet warm rapidly. Smaug’s fires were hotter than any other, and the stones glowed with heat. The soles of their boots smouldered and smoked as the hot stones burned the soil they had tracked into the Mountain. They had taken a turning, but the heat followed. Reaching a cliff edge, Bifur jumped into the air, Bofur, and Glóin following his example, and landed in a large trough which began skidding down metal tracks. The whine of metal against metal tore at their ears, but they had managed to escape the hot plume of fire. At the bottom of the track, the dwarrow were hurled through the air once more, but landed relatively safely in the large buckets on the hanging conveyor belt that had been used to move ore into the forge. The dragon was far too large to follow. The three shared a look and a sigh of relief, before Bofur began hauling them along the lines toward the Great Forges.

 

* * *

 

Balin, Thorin, and Óin were running through a large hallway, the King in the lead desperately trying to remember the right way. Balin turned into a side tunnel, but Thorin continued forward with Óin at his heels.

“It’s this way! This way! Come on!” Balin shouted, waving at Thorin. He'd spent far more time in the Great Forges than Thorin, even though he had never been called to smith-craft, and he remembered all the shortcuts he used to take to get a few more minutes with Skaro before they walked home together when his Master let the young goldsmith go for the day. Óin stopped dead, sprinting back to the tunnel.

“Thorin!” Óin shouted. Thorin turned and began to move back towards them. He had almost reached them when Smaug appeared at the end of the hallway. Thorin shot Balin a look of despair. He would not be able to reach a safe tunnel to turn into before Smaug’s flames – already brewing in his belly – reached him. 

“Follow Balin!” he yelled, turning around while Óin protested loudly. The old healer had his back towards Smaug, and had not realised why Thorin was running away from them.

“Come on!” Balin hissed, yanking the old healer into the side tunnel just in time to avoid being burned by Smaug’s fire.

Thorin ran away from his cousins, hoping beyond hop that he remembered the layout of this level of tunnel correctly. His memory proved true when he reached one of the deep mining pits, jumping into thin air with a loud yell. He caught one of the bucket chains that had once been used to cart up ore from the miners in the depths, hoping that Smaug’s fiery breath would pass over his head if the dragon had decided to spew flames after his quarry. The chain-lock gave way, and Thorin cursed loudly as he descended rapidly, unable to stop the bucket until it reached the bottom. When he looked up, another curse fell from his lips. Far above him, Smaug was climbing into the pit. His claws found purchase on the rough walls of the mining shaft and he quickly sped down into the depths, filled with rage and hunger. Snapping his jaws at Thorin, Smaug growled when he missed, following the dwarf ever further down.

“Thorin!” Dwalin screamed, running up to the mouth of the mining shaft and looking down in horror. His heart felt like it had stopped beating for the few moments between watching Thorin jump, and seeing him reach the precarious safety of the bucket chain. With a roar, he smashed his axe into the heavy machinery, releasing the counterweight bucket. Far below him, Thorin’s fall came to an abrupt halt, but the Dwarf-King managed to keep his perilous footing on the swaying bucket. As the counterweight fell, the bucket soared upwards once more. Thorin gripped the chain tightly with one hand, pulling out Orcrist with the other. As he rose, he narrowly missed smashing into Smaug’s face, but Orcrist's blade bit deeply into the dragon’s cheek. Smaug roared, his eyes burning with anger, even as his chest began to glow with fire. The sword continued its upward slice, blinding the dragon. Smaug turned, looking up at the hastily disappearing dwarf. With a loud screech, Smaug’s claws grabbed Thorin’s chain and with a mighty yank he unmoored the heavy machinery at the top of the shaft. The chain went slack, making Thorin fall once more. He landed with a grunt, winded and breathless, on the tip of Smaug’s mouth. Smaug slowly opened his massive maw, fire rumbling deep within his breast. Just as he snapped his mouth shut to eat Thorin, the dwarf jumped once more into thin air. Thorin’s luck held, letting him reach another chain attached to a miner’s chair. Above him, Dwalin whimpered, swearing to everything he held sacred that he would never again leave the side of his foolhardy love. Smaug turned his head, opening his mouth to bite at Thorin again, but the heavy winch he had dislodged from above finally reached them. It hit the dragon square across the face, making his grip on the wall falter. Dori, having reached the pit on the other side, pulled out a large hammer, hastily abandoned by a fleeing engineer 171 years before, hitting the gear lock on the machinery with all his might. His stroke dislodged almost two centuries of dust, sending the gears spinning rapidly. The chair lurched once, before climbing quickly towards the top. Thorin could only cling to the chair, keeping hold of Orcrist with one hand. Smaug roared, in pain and anger, drawing in a mighty breath and expelling a fiery plume of destruction upwards. The heat was immense. Thorin screamed as the chain beneath his hands began glowing cherry red, but he made it to the top before the fire. Dori yanked him off the chair, pulling him ungently into the tunnel behind him.

“Go! Go!” he shouted. Thorin winced. His gloves had protected him somewhat, but he could feel slight burns on his palms. He looked up, catching sight of a relieved Dwalin and began running. The two ran through another narrow tunnel, passing through the tall stone pillars that marked the West Entryway of the Great Forges and joined the other dwarrow on the Furnace Floor, just as Bilbo and Nori appeared from behind a tapestry of Mahal at work. Several massive furnaces greeted their eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

“What’s the plan?” Balin asked. The silence of the hall hurt his soul. He could see the door to Master Tindri’s workshop, where Skaro had learned his trade, and Balin’s mind served up countless memories of happy times in these rooms, watching exquisite work grow under his beloved’s hands. Skaro had been a gifted goldsmith and jeweller, and his work had adorned many high-ranking dwarrow despite his youth. Balin knew pieces of his skill still rested in the Treasury, and they were part of his own contract for the venture. Holding trinkets that his beloved One had worked would never compare to his loss, but Balin felt a sense of comfort that there was proof of Skaro’s life. He tried not to wonder if they would find Skaro’s corpse, unsure which alternative would be more heart-breaking.

“Without Kíli’s bow, we will need other means to subdue the dragon,” Thorin interrupted his old friend’s dark thoughts decisively. “We are going to kill this dragon if it’s the last thing we do. We could try to use the scent of molten gold to distract him?”

“The plan’s not going to work easily without the element of surprise, and these furnaces are stone cold.” Dwalin rumbled. All their many hours of planning, both in Mirkwood and while they crossed the desolation and searched for the Door, was essentially useless now, and Dwalin steeled himself. It would come down to their weapons against Smaug’s; the Shumrozbid was not sure what madcap scheme was brewing in Thorin’s mind, and his long experience with the son of Durin’s thought processes told him that Thorin had very little idea what he was going to do either.

“He’s right; there’s no fire hot enough to set them ablaze.” Balin shook his head. Around him, the Company gripped their weapons tighter. The furnaces were all dark, with no sign of fire within. Thorin turned back toward the pit he had just escaped.

“Have we not?” Thorin grinned, the light of reckless mischief shining in his eyes. At that moment, none could dispute exactly how Kíli had come by the expression. “I did not look to see you so easily outwitted!” he yelled in Smaug’s direction. The Dragon’s claw emerged from the pit, his body following it quickly; a sinuous move of scales and flesh and anger. Thorin continued taunting him. “You have grown slow and fat in your dotage.” Behind him, the Company were looking at each other worriedly. Dwalin put a hand on Thorin’s arm, but he ignored it easily. Smaug snarled angrily. With a grin, Thorin delivered his final insult. “Slug!” With a snarl, Smaug made it out of the deep pit, advancing on the Company. Thorin leapt behind one of the stone pillars with a yell, “Take cover. Go!”

Proving once more that their loyalty to his orders was  perhaps greater than their common sense, the Company ran to follow, pressing themselves against the pillars just as Smaug unleashed the fire glowing in his breast. The flames were blocked by the wide pillars, but reached the furnaces, igniting the coal beds once more. They screamed. The heat and pressure of Smaug’s fire surrounded them, tightening their skin and making them cry out in pain and fear, but not burning anyone to a crisp. Smaug growled, halting the stream of fire. The furnaces glowed. The Company ran from the protective stone pillars, leaving Smaug to begin banging against the metal latticework that both decorated and shielded the pillars above a dwarf’s head height. The metal was thick and strong, groaning under the onslaught, but holding for now. It would not take long for Smaug’s immense strength to bend them, however.

 

* * *

 

“Bombur! Get those bellows working. Go!” Thorin shouted. The fat dwarf ran towards the largest forge.

“Alright!” Bombur took a flying leap, hanging on a chain attached to the large bellows. He landed hard on the handle of the massive bellow, compressing it with his weight. Air blew into the furnace, turning the flames bright blue. On top of the furnace, unrefined gold glimmered in the low light. Bombur kept the bellows moving easily. Thorin sent a prayer of thanks to the Maker that they even still worked after 170 years of disuse. He did not know what material they were made of, but he could only be grateful that it had not rotted away in time.

“Bilbo! Up there, on my mark, pull that lever. We’ll kill his fire!” the air of recklessness still permeated Thorin’s entire being, but the hobbit just nodded. Thorin pointed at a lever high up on a mound, and Bilbo ran towards it, climbing the stairs and thanking any Valar he could think of that Dwarrow were only slightly larger than Hobbits. If the stairs had been designed by Men – or, Eru forbid – by someone the size of Beorn, he would have had to climb in truth, rather than simply run up the steps. He spared a stray thought on the wish for railings, but it seemed to be a futile desire with most of the bigger races. He had seen very few bridge railings in Erebor so far, and Rivendell had been distinctly lacking in that capacity too. The other dwarrow ran toward the forges as the latticework began to break. Thorin grabbed Balin’s arm.

“Can you still make flash-flame?” he barked, but Balin just nodded. 

“Aye. It’ll only take a jiffy.” He turned, looking at the storage areas by the east end. “Come on!” Grabbing Ori and Dori, Balin ran off swiftly.

 “We don’t have a jiffy.” Dwalin groaned, watching Smaug attack the latticework, bending the solid steel easily. With an oath, Nori thrust Kíli’s bow and his quiver of arrows at Thorin, before pulling out all the throwing knives and darts he had secreted about his person, hurling them against the dragon. Thorin pulled the bow back, letting one of his modified Black Arrows fly. Smaug roared and redoubled his attack on the metal latticework. Most of Nori’s weapons were turned away by his scales, but a few found purchase in the softer skin of his lips and when he reared back, Nori spotted the weak spot on his chest.

“The rumours were true!” he spat, pointing at the slight discolouration of Smaug’s jewel-and-gold-encrusted underbelly. Thorin put another arrow to his string. The first one had managed to hit Smaug’s eye, but unfortunately it was the one he had already blinded with his sword.

“There IS a weak spot!” Dwalin growled, readying his axes. The latticework groaned and bent. The bow sang as it released another arrow, but Smaug turned at the last moment, and the arrow that had been heading straight for his chest glanced off one of the gold coins embedded into his soft underbelly. With a final scream of tortured metal, the latticework gave way and fell to the ground. Smaug landed on all fours once more, hiding the darkened spot on his chest from view and stalked into the Great Forges with a growl. The Dwarrow reared back, spreading out around the dragon.

 

* * *

 

 

In the East Chemical Storage room off the Great Forges, Balin was frantically mixing powders from the dust-covered jars into smaller containers. Ori was fetching whatever Balin called for, while Dori kept watch through the doorway.

“Where’s the sulphur?” he cried, while Ori carted over another large jug, marked with the symbol for sulphur.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Dori snarled. Balin just chuckled, adding more powders to his jar. Dori was watching through the doorway as Smaug stalked towards Thorin. “Come on!” Balin dropped a small ball in each jar.

 

* * *

 

 

Smaug raised his head to look at Bilbo, who had reached the lever Thorin had asked him to pull. With a groan, he realised that his part of the plan might just be the lynchpin; the lever was obviously built for the size and strength of a dwarf, which Bilbo decidedly did not possess. Smaug turned to look at Thorin with a snarl, fire glowing in his breast.

“Now!” Thorin yelled. Bilbo leapt into the air, wrapping both arms around the lever and using all his weight and momentum to pull it down. Huge jets of water burst out of carved faces in the wall behind Bilbo and slam into Smaug, knocking him off balance and quenching the flames he was beginning to blow at Thorin. Bilbo cheered as Smaug sputtered, the water’s force sweeping his legs out from underneath him and sending him crashing into the side of the furnace. The glowing fire in his chest disappeared. Roaring in rage, Smaug flapped into the air and began thrashing about madly. The jets of water, designed to flow into canals and back to the watermills that pulled the conveyor belts with the power of the River Running,  dislodged the debris that clogged up their paths and one massive wheel began turning slowly, fed by the renewed access of the river. Out of sight, ancient gears began turning creakily. Above the Furnace Floor – the part of the Great Forges dedicated to smelting – old conveyor belts that had not moved since the emergency shut-offs had stopped them in their tracks began moving once more. Some of the conveyors controlled the large buckets that transported ore directly from the mines to the Furnace Floor, while others were filled with the finished ingots that were shipped to the various Crafting Halls around the Mountain. The noise was deafening, and Bilbo could only imagine how loud it had been when the Forges were in use.

Below his platform, Bombur continued going up and down with the bellows. The bright blue flames of the furnace slowly melted the gold, making it glow. At this point, even Bilbo could distinguish the scent of it, as the heat burned off impurities. To his Hobbit nose, it was not a particularly pleasant smell, but the dragon breathed deeply. Smaug began crawling towards Thorin again.

Above the forge floor, Glóin, Bifur, and Bofur had finally arrived. Pulling the conveyor along with their own hands had been slow, hard work, as most of the buckets were filled with rocks and heavy ore. They surveyed the scene below them. Bilbo was beginning to climb down from the water lever, but Smaug was advancing on Thorin, who had put the bow back on his chest and drawn his sword. Without a clear shot, the sword would be more useful, and if this was to be the hour of his death, he could think of no finer blade to be holding. Thorin slid gracefully into his fighter’s stance, while Dwalin took up position beside him. Small blue explosions hit Smaug’s face, tossed with surprising accuracy by Dori and Ori, but he shook off the impact of Balin’s flash-flames irritably. Glóin raised his axe. Bofur pointed silently to a rope. With a last glance at his bucket companions for luck, Glóin cut sharply through the rope. The heavy buckets opposite them fell, raining rock and ore onto Smaug’s head and making him crash to the ground, roaring in anger.

 

On top of the furnace, the gold had turned fully liquid. Óin yanked on a chain, opening a gate at the bottom of the furnace and letting the molten gold flow out. The precious metal poured from the furnace and through long channels built into the floor. The scent intensified.

 

Smaug, tangled in ropes, buckets, and pulleys, and bruised by falling rocks, roared angrily. He trashed about, trying to free himself from the sturdy trappings. As he twisted, he exposed his weak spot more than once, but the constant movement gave Thorin no opportunity for attack. Fíli had taken position next to his uncle, lobbing flash-flames at random. Smaug’s claws hit other conveyor systems, bringing more ropes and buckets crashing down. When he hit the one holding the three dwarrow, the Company all gasped.

“Noo!” Glóin screamed, as they plummeted towards the ground. Bofur’s hat fell off his head, no longer shielding his pale face. Bifur’s curses continued in a high pitch of fear. Beneath the thrashing dragon, rivers of molten gold flowed across the floor. In what they would later call miraculous luck, the three dwarrow landed safely on the ground, scurrying out of range of the deadly dragon. Blinded, trapped and furious, Smaug was still more than dangerous. The ancient ropes began snapping under the strain, letting the dragon free one wing as another of Thorin’s arrows hit, this one piercing the weakened spot on his chest, but penetrating less than four inches into the flesh behind the missing scale. Smaug roared, tearing himself free of more rope. With a curse, Thorin began running. His carefully laid plan – as well as his slapdash effort – had already failed, and he was scrambling to come up with new ideas. The dragon seemed a little slower than he had in the Treasury, and he was bleeding steadily from both face and chest, but it was hardly a noticeable advantage when their weapons were mostly useless. If only they could drown him in the gold, Thorin thought wildly. An idea was born.

“Lead him to the Gallery of the Kings!” he shouted, changing course.

Smaug’s thrashing dislodged one of the heavy metal buckets he had been tangled with. With a vicious yell, he sent it flying off towards the wall… straight towards the terrified Hobbit on the stairs. Bilbo screamed, ducking instinctively. The bucket missed him by a hair, crashing into the stone wall and taking great big chunks out of it.

Thorin grabbed a wheelbarrow and pushed it while he ran, dodging Smaug’s thrashing limbs. Smaug’s tail smashed into the base of the stairs, cracking it. Bilbo screamed again, as the cracks travelled rapidly through the stone. He sped up his attempts to get down, wanting to head towards Óin who was waving frantically at him. Thorin threw the wheelbarrow into one of the channels of molten gold and leapt into it; it floated on the gold and was carried along.

 

* * *

 

 

Smaug roared. Whipping his head around, finally managing to free himself from the tangled mess of rope and metal, he took up pursuit of the filthy little usurper. He stomped after the dwarf, following the direction of the gold, which he had never realised was left here. Ahead of him, the dwarf’s wheelbarrow disappeared through a small entrance. Smaug’s tail lashed out as his teeth snapped closed over empty air. He hit the base of the stairs once more, and they crumbled. He enjoyed the Thief’s screams with a corner of his mind, but the major part of his attention was fixed on the Dwarf-King, plotting revenge for his eye.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo was falling. Another scream tore itself free of his throat as he watched the stone under his feet give up against the force of Smaug’s hits. He had no idea how he managed to land safely, but when he straightened from his instinctive roll, Bilbo began running instantly. Smaug snarled behind him and Bilbo put on an extra burst of speed. He had to reach Thorin and get out!

“Keep going, Bilbo! Run!” Thorin yelled, but he disappeared before Bilbo caught up, swept away on the tide of gold.

Bilbo took off running, Smaug close behind him. He had no idea where he was going, the name Gallery of Kings meaning nothing to him in a cartographical sense. His best bet was following the direction of Thorin, as Smaug had blocked him from reaching the tunnel Óin and the others had taken. With a prayer, he leapt onto a stone slide that had once been a wall, he was sure, hearing Smaug crashing after him. The dragon’s wings destroyed the stonework around them as they slid down the smooth green stone.

 

* * *

 

The channel Thorin had used to float away from Smaug’s ire ended at a sharp drop. As his barrow went over the edge, Thorin leapt once more into nothing. His luck held. For the third time, he caught himself on a chain, lungs working overtime with fear and adrenaline. He had expected to see the massive sight before him, though he had not actually expected to _reach_ it, when he jumped into the river of gold. The molten gold dropped from its chutes into a large stone mould. Thorin clung tightly to his chain. He could hear Smaug coming closer, but he could only hope that the small Burglar survived. He climbed onto the mould, standing on the shoulder of the unfinished statue as the rest of the Company assembled behind him, grabbing the chains attached to the bands around the mould. Thorin flashed them a grin, receiving a relieved look from Fíli and Dwalin, before he turned to face the long gallery once more. The stone was warm beneath his feet. Thorin waited.

Bilbo ran from the base of the slide, rushing through a doorway and into a large cavernous hall. Along the walls were large statues, and from the ceiling hung banners with faded colours and symbols. He gasped in a surprised breath. The sheer majesty and scale of the room took his breath away. Smaug burst through the wall above him, interrupting Bilbo’s amazed gazing with more running. He tried to outrun the falling banner Smaug had pulled from the ceiling, but the long heavy cloth knocked him onto his belly as it landed across him. The rod that had held it thumped into the floor ahead of him, leaving a sizable dent, and Bilbo felt grateful that the cloth had stopped him in time. Smaug leapt down, snarling angrily. Warm drops of blood flew through the air, hissing when they landed on the cold stone.

 

* * *

 

 

“You think you could deceive me, Thief?” Smaug roared. The Thief cowered under the fallen banner, peeking out from under the edge of the worn fabric. “You have come from Laketown. This is- is some sort of scheme hatched between these filthy dwarves and those miserable Lakemen. Those snivelling cowards with their longbows and black arrows!” Smaug felt a frisson of fear crawl up his spine when he mentioned the arrows. He had not thought there had been any of the arrows left, taking great pleasure in burning Girion’s windlance to the ground wlong with the supply the Lord of Dale had not had time to use against him. He remembered the agony of losing his scale; a minor thing, compared to the filthy usurper stealing his eye, but painful enough to earn his wrathful vengeance, nonetheless. “Perhaps it is time I paid them a visit. Clearly they no longer fear my wrath.” He snarled, turning away from the banner hiding the Thief. When he returned, he would play with the little thing that had so vexed him.

 

* * *

 

 

“Oh, no.” Bilbo gasped, scrambling out from under the banner to yell at Smaug, “This isn’t their fault! Wait! You cannot go to Laketown.” Of course, the town had been emptied, but Thorin had stated that it was imperative they kept Smaug from leaving the Mountain if they were to have any chance of killing him without an army. Bilbo watched, panicked, as Smaug moved towards the far end of the Gallery, where a large empty archway would provide him an easy egress; it led almost directly to the King’s Avenue – Kalm’uthrakh; the main thoroughfare that linked the Front Gates to the Throne Room, and from which most other hallways in Erebor branched.

 

* * *

 

 

Hearing this, Smaug stopped for a moment and then turned toward the little creature, who was running after him.

“You _care_ about them, do you? Good. Then you can watch them die.” He snarled. His fire had not yet reignited and his thirst for vengeance and desire for inflicting suffering on this pathetic little creature far outweighed his desire to eat the little thing. No, he decided, that one would be eaten last, along with Oakenshield, the coward, who had fled. He turned; intent on striding down the hall and reaching the Gates of the Mountain. Behind him, the Thief cried out in despair.

 

* * *

 

 

“Here, you witless worm!” Thorin snarled.

Smaug stopped, turning with a loud growl and squinting angrily.

“ _You._ ” He hissed, sinuously moving towards the angry dwarf. Thorin kept a firm grip on his courage and the chain in his hand.

“I am taking back what you stole.” Thorin said firmly, holding his ground as he stared Smaug in the eye. On top of the mould, he was more equal to the dragon’s height and he allowed himself a smirk at the thought. Smaug slowly stalked across the floor in front of him. Thorin tracked him warily. He believed the fire to be dead, but the vicious dragon was more dangerous than any foe he had ever battled.

“You would take nothing from me, Dwarf.” The dragon spat, “I laid low your warriors of old. I instilled terror in the hearts of men. I am King under the Mountain.” Smaug’s sibilant tones caressed the title. Thorin grit his teeth. Keeping the dragon’s attention on him allowed Bilbo to escape to the next hall, and Thorin breathed a slight sigh of relief when the little Burglar disappeared.

“This is not your kingdom! These are dwarf lands, this is dwarf gold, and we _will_ have our revenge.” He gripped his chain tighter, knowing that the others were doing the same behind him, unseen by their adversary. As he spoke, he reached up to a rope above him. With a final yell in Khuzdul, he yanked on the rope, “ **Magakukha ai-mê dumsu!**[120]”

The rope pulled tight, and a pin fell out of the wooden and iron bands that kept the mould sealed tight. Behind the statue, the rest of the Company pulled on equivalent ropes, and the mould fell apart, leaving Thorin to swing to safety with another chain. Smaug reared his head in confusion. With the obscuring stone gone, lustrous gold was revealed, intricately detailed into a statue of long-dead Thrór. Smaug stared, entranced by the massive figure. His mouth opened slightly, avaricious pleasure flashing in his eyes. The sound of a drop falling on stone seemed to ring through the silent chamber. Before Smaug could find the source of the noise, however, the eye of the statue warped. In an effect that looked almost like tears, it burst, spewing molten metal towards him. The gold in the statue had not solidified and the statue collapsed in a wave of burning liquid. Smaug screamed, scrabbling back on his claws to get away from the tidal wave of gold. From the balcony a few levels above the floor, Thorin pulled out Kíli’s bow. He aimed. From behind the statue, Ori’s slingshot was pulled back, having released the pebble that made the statue cry its first tear. Beside him, Nori was flinging every last of his thrown weapons and a few of his less favourite poisoned daggers towards the weak spot that Smaug’s position did not protect. The dragon screamed when he was struck by several weapons at once. The gold flowed over him. Smaug disappeared under the liquid.

Beside Thorin, Bilbo was gaping. On the scaffolding behind the former statue, the Company were simply staring, not daring to believe that their foe had been vanquished. Minutes passed, with no sign of Smaug.

Cautious joy began filling the bearded faces, a single tear making its way down many cheeks.

 

Smaug burst from the golden floor. He was bleeding again, and coughing up gold. He tried to scream, but the words were hoarse and pitiful. “Revenge?! Revenge! I will show you REVENGE!” He was entirely covered in gold, trying to shake off the burning metal frantically. Fíli’s sword, thrown in what he later called a ‘moment of panicked brilliance’, hit his undamaged eye, embedding itself deeply into the glowing orb. It was followed rapidly by Dwalin’s axe. Though it was not balanced for throwing, the warrior’s brute strength – combined with long years of experience - ensured that his axe flew true, smacking into the dragon’s skull and burying itself until only the end of the shaft poked out. Thorin shot his last arrow, making Smaug’s missing scale look like a pincushion when it joined the two daggers and three arrows already there. The dragon whimpered in pain.

Smaug’s great wings could no longer hold him aloft, and the dragon plunged downwards. He was bleeding profusely, both eyes staring unseeingly as he thrashed, burned scales flaking off his skin. Dragons were largely fireproof, but mostly on the inside; the molten gold had filled in the tiny cracks between the scales and burned them off. Smaug’s death throes carried him through another wall and out of the Gallery of Kings, followed by a wash of liquid gold. The cold stone floor of the gallery had already solidified a bottom layer of gold, so the receding tide left behind a shiny reflective flooring.

The Company simply stared, dumbstruck, at the wall Smaug had broken. They could hear him moving still, but his roars were muted. As one, they began running, jumping from scaffolding to scaffolding to follow Thorin and Bilbo as they sped into the adjoining hall.

No one cared that they were stepping in puddles of Smaug’s blood apart from the hobbit, who was obviously still barefoot. Bilbo jumped between puddles while the dwarrow simply strode through undaunted.

The sight of the dead dragon was as awe-inspiring as the living creature had been. Smaug’s blinded eyes had turned milky in death, ichor flowing from them in great drips. His blood pooled with the gold on the floor around his corpse. No one spoke a word.

 

Balin cleared his throat. No one reacted, lost in staring at their defeated enemy.

 

“Welcome, my friends and companions,” Thorin said hoarsely, pausing in the middle of the cavernous Front Hall. “To Erebor!” he roared. The Dwarrow and Bilbo cheered loudly.

“We made it!” Dori cried, tears of happiness trailing down his cheeks as he hugged Ori tightly.

Nori cursed loudly.

“We forgot about Kíli. He’s still in the secret tunnel.” He said quietly, when Thorin whirled to glare at him for the language. Nori shrugged.

The Company exchanged several long looks, before Ori’s wheezing giggle broke the ensuing silence. As if Ori’s giggle was the first stone of a rockslide, the Company followed him, collapsing in paroxysms of laughter.

When the laughing fit finally subsided, they helped each other to their feet and made their way slowly back to the Great Forges.

 

 

###### notes:

[120] I’m not sure if this is what he actually said in the film, as the first bit is difficult to understand, but dumsu(doom) is fairly clear, so I’m choosing to have him say “Doom on you!” lit. “let doom be upon you ordered!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I had to write the forge scene, simply because it was my favourite part of the movie and I think they managed to work into the scenes how suddenly Erebor was abandoned, people fleeing with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. The idea that Thorin would be a decent shot is not new, as it seems dwarrow - especially the Royals - are trained in a multitude of weapons before they pick their favourite. Frerin is spoken of as being a great archer too, and even if Thorin does not have Kíli's abilities, he would be able to shoot a bow.


	17. Waiting and Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being left behind to wait for news is not easy, and interspecies tensions rise.

When Rhonith woke, it was Durin’s Day. An underlying feeling of anxiety and unease dogged her footsteps as she made her way to the private chambers of Thranduil. As she walked, she missed the glances sent her way by passing humans. Lost in a daze of sinuously twined fears and dreams, she only managed enough awareness of her surroundings to avoid bumping into anyone or tripping and falling off walkways and stairs. Passing Silvans shot her looks of concern but did not attempt to call for her attention. A few bowed or nodded their heads, which alerted the Men to the importance of the short, pale, ethereally beautiful Elf. One man elbowed his neighbour and made a ribald remark, but she did not seem to hear him, her eyes curiously clouded and blank as she passed. The man found himself with a gleaming dagger to the throat and a red-haired elf hissing threats in his native tongue. Another grasped his arm and pulled back slightly.

“Peace, Galion. Our guest surely did not mean to offend our Beloved Lady Rhonith. I’m certain his tongue merely misbehaved for a second and he will henceforth control it better lest it simply _pops_ -“ here, he gave the terrified man a truly menacing smile, “- out of his mouth…won’t you?”

Speechless, the petrified man nodded, cowering from the fury sparking in those impossibly ancient eyes in the ageless face before him. Galion’s answering smile sent chills down his back.

“We are not Men. Our elleths will not tolerate derogatory remarks of any kind and had you been an Elf, we would punish you severely. I hope we have made ourselves clear? Your women may not protest such words, but we most definitely will. With great prejudice.” He hissed, his eyes conveying his desire to dole out punishment right on the spot. They flicked down to land on the hapless Man’s crotch. The dark-haired man cringed away, a small drop of blood beading on his skin. Galion’s dagger never left his throat as the two elves turned, following Rhonith’s steps with their eyes until she turned a corner and passed from view. They shared a look, and turned from the man, who was still cowering against the wall and trying to look, if not innocent, then at least small and beneath notice, still trembling with fear. The elves left. The man’s comrades, who had been inching ever further away from him, exhaled slowly in relief. Farther down the corridor an old woman cackled with glee.

“How many times have I told you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Alfrid, when you’ve been in my inn? Bad enough when you’re talking about the serving wenches, but that was a proper Elvish Lady that was. I’ve seen her with the Prince.” She shouted up the corridor, where the man had collapsed in a heap, his hands shielding his groin. Galion’s implied threat rang in his ears.

Several women nodded in agreement with the old innkeeper, a few having been the subject of Alfrid’s derogatory remarks before. He was under the Master’s protection, as his closest toady, but that did not count for anything here, they realised, smiling at the thought.

At the end of the day, the story had spread like wildfire among the refugees and it had only grown harsher for the retelling. The elves chuckled to themselves, but no Man dared speak to an elleth with anything less than the utmost politeness afterwards. Not that they had done so before, but their manners had been polished by the unfortunate incident. Maeassel gave Galion a wink and an extra slice of berry tart, which made the Steward flush with pleasure. The cook’s approval was hard-won, but once gained, Maeassel’s fondness came with plenty of treats and Galion coveted her best baked goods just as much as anyone else. The scrumptious berry tarts usually went for the King’s table, but Maeassel would keep a few back for elves who had particularly pleased her and Galion was proud to often be counted among them.

 

* * *

 

By the time the tale had reached the ears of Bard, it had grown so much that it sounded as if the man had attempted to force himself on the highborn Lady in the corridor, endangering the prospect of Thranduil marrying his son to her. Her personal guard of five of the strongest elves in the realm had jumped on the hapless fool and threatened to cut off all his extremities, starting with fingers and toes and working their way up in size from there. Only the grace of the Lady had spared him an unmerciful end. It was a very nervous Bard who entered Thranduil’s Throne Room that evening.

 

* * *

 

The Master had been introduced to the wonders of Dorwinion wine by the unscrupulous Steward, Galion, and was snoring happily in a forgotten corner somewhere, goblet still unfinished. It might have been spiced, but Galion would never tell, content to work behind the scenes to improve life for his King. None of the Elvenking’s subjects had missed the disdain the Master seemed to harbour for them, nor Thranduil’s icy politeness which covered a deep well of dislike. Legolas’ arrival with Bard had eased the King’s temper some, as the Bowman was a far more agreeable leader to deal with and Thranduil did not mind the Master’s absence. A slight glance at Galion was answered with a motion, which on anyone else would have been simply a smile, but in Thranduil’s mind, it answered any and all questions he might have had. A flicker of his blue eyes conveyed his pleasure to the capable Steward and the matter went unmentioned by anyone. Rhonith did not care, as she had never even met the Master, and Legolas cared even less for his company than Thranduil himself. Bard didn’t realise that the Master ought to have been there, and his lack of diplomatic training would hide the slight snub from his otherwise keen mind. Thranduil smiled to himself. He had met several times with Bard, trying to gauge the man’s character as the probable future Lord of Dale. If Bard wanted the position, Thranduil would prefer to trade with him, rather than the Master, and his mind had quickly resolved to work towards that outcome. He was certain that the Dwarf-King would prefer Bard as a possible ally too, and had no scruples in treating the Man as though his presence in future diplomatic relations was a given already. Thranduil was a great believer in acting as though something was already settled; it usually meant things got settled to his satisfaction.

 “ _Aran vuin Thranduil. Caun vuin Legolas. Hiril vuin Rhonith._ ” Galion spoke clearly from behind the guest, making Bard jump. “I present Lord Bard, Heir of Girion of Dale.”

 

* * *

 

As the grim man approached, Rhonith studied him keenly. Legolas had told her about meeting him in Laketown and given her his opinion of Girion’s heir and the man looked fierce, she had to admit. In his eyes shone evidence of a keen mind and a harsh life. He bowed nervously when he reached the dais, shooting an uneasy glance her way and surreptitiously looking around for the terrifying guard he had been expecting. Rhonith’s earlier preoccupation had been banished to the farthest corners of her mind. She could do naught to aid her dwarrow and worrying did no one any favours. She stood by Legolas, slightly behind the Elvenking, who rose fluidly to greet the de facto leader of the Lakemen.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil cast a shrewd eye over the man who was fighting to appear calm. “Lord Bard, be welcome at our table. You already know my son, Prince Legolas, and this is our Beloved Lady Rhonith, my ward, who only recently returned to us from Dol Guldur.” Thranduil took pity on the man, who was doing his best to seem unperturbed at the company he found himself in. If said company had been born with the lesser eyes of mortals, he might even have succeeded.

Legolas appeared to be struggling with hiding his amusement and Rhonith felt a frisson of pity for the man. She had not heard the embellished tale of Galion’s vehement defence of her honour and simply thought the man unnerved by the presence of the Elvenking. Legolas exchanged a brief glance with Rhonith, easily conveying his amusement; he had only known Bard as a man of great fortitude and strength of heart, but that determination seemed to have been left outside the door. Rhonith stepped forward, a resplendent vision in her deep green dress with her mithril hair bound only by a thin circlet crafted by her father in a bygone Age. She placed her hand lightly on Legolas’s arm and gave the skittish Man a soft smile. The Princeling brought his face back under his control and Rhonith let go with a slight squeeze.

“Girion’s descendant? You were correct, _mellon-nîn_ , the resemblance is striking. Girion was a very handsome man, though I hope you have a better head for wine, Lord Bard,” she laughed lightly, trying to set the tense man at ease and succeeding at least slightly. “ _Ni veren an dhe ngovaned,_ Bard _,_ Lord of Dale[121].”

”I am no Lord, my Lady. Just a simple bargeman and hunter.” He bowed, “I fear that we of Laketown owe you an apology, my Lady. I have heard that there was an altercation this morning involving one of our more uncouth number.” Bard was trying hard to hide his apprehensions, wondering whether he would face some form of punishment as Alfrid’s apparent superior, but the Lady simply smiled at him.

“Ahh, yes, the gentleman with the unfortunate mouth. I believe sweet Galion, the Steward for my Lord Thranduil dealt with the matter.” Rhonith wondered why he even mentioned the incident, surely such a trifling matter as a few rude words was not something for a leader to worry over. Over her shoulder, Thranduil’s smile was toothy like a shark, as both the royals moved slightly to surround their shorter member; an undeniable symbolic gesture whose significance Bard did not miss.

“You may wish to remind your friends and neighbours that they are guests in my Halls and it would behove them to act as such.” Thranduil said, sternly, putting his hand on Rhonith’s shoulder. “Living as long as we do, elves are very aware of polite interactions. A grudge that may be kept for a millennium is a great deterrent from rudeness. Best they not start any.” He would accept no uncivil behaviour from these Men, especially not in regards to the elleths of his Halls and most definitely not towards his beloved daughter.

“Peace, Lord Bard, King Thranduil. No offense was taken and I am sure Galion demonstrated your point with admirable skill. No more need be said about it.” Rhonith nodded at the Steward, who smiled in grim satisfaction. “Now, do join us for the evening meal. I should like to hear your impressions of my kinsmen, whom I believe you aided in their endeavours in Laketown.” Another step and a sweeping hand gesture had Bard walking beside her, still tongue-tied by the idea that this slip of a girl, who looked no older than his own daughter, had known his ancestor well enough to comment on his alcohol tolerance. When Bard’s back turned, Legolas’ mirth overtook his face, and he could feel Thranduil’s amusement in the glance his Ada sent him before following the two to the laden table. Outside the Halls, the sun sank behind the dark trees.

The meal passed with quiet conversation, the three Elves doing their best to include the Man and leaving heavier topics of discussion for a later hour. Once Bard had been sufficiently calmed, Rhonith returned the conversation to the topic she had most wanted his insights on. Legolas and Thranduil had of course given their impressions and interpretations, but Bard would have a different perspective.

“So, Lord Bard, how did the Company fare in Laketown?” Bard still seemed uncomfortable with the title, but Rhonith was determined to use it. Legolas had told her how much help the Man had been in winning over the reluctant townspeople, and he was owed respect, if nothing else, she felt.

“At first, they were refused entrance by the bridge guard. The Master’s made new rules about turning away foreign travellers. The Elven guard,” Bard nodded towards Legolas, “helped convince them to let the Dwarrow meet with the Master. On their way there, the white-haired old one – Balin – noticed me. He called me Girion. It was peculiar. Usually no one mentions him, except when I am being punished for his failure,” Bard found himself sharing much more than he had wanted to with the elleth whose compassionate blue eyes seemed to look deep into his soul. Rhonith smiled softly.

“My dear cousin was quite correct, the resemblance is uncanny. I suppose it must have been odd for you to meet someone who knew him.” She said, trying to put his mind at ease by changing the subject. Obviously he was unused to his ancestor being mentioned in a good light, but the Girion she had known had been a good man.

Thranduil sipped his wine slowly. “I did not realise Balin was old enough to have met Girion when he ruled Dale. Though he looks older than Thorin, I had the feeling he was not that old when Smaug took the Mountain. I have known many dwarrow from cradle to tomb, but I have never been good at telling their ages. After maturity they never seem to change much until they’re almost ready to journey to Aulë’s Halls.”

“Balin is a little older than Thorin, a few decades I believe. He is also Dwalin’s older brother, Thranduil. They are the sons of Fundin, who served on Thrór’s council. Balin met with Girion as his father’s apprentice. Furthermore, Balin is Thorin’s chief advisor, a role he was trained for almost from birth, and as such it is his job to know diplomatic facts about anyone the dwarrow do trade with. I’m sure he could tell you much about Dale of old.”

Bard continued his tale, explaining how the Company had met with the Master, who had granted them permission to stay, but who had initially refused to seek refuge with Elves and probably would have tried to stop the Company from leaving Laketown. Once they had been sent back to the rundown building the Master had deemed a worthy guest house, the Dwarrow had gone to explore the town. The townsfolk, many of whom had never even seen an Elf, let alone a Dwarf, had been cautiously welcoming. Some of them remembered their ancestors’ stories of the wealth of Dale and Erebor, and were intrigued by the idea of getting rid of the dragon. That did not mean that they wanted to leave their home just because a group of Dwarrow had arrived. The Master’s continued refusal to listen to reason had annoyed Thorin, but more disheartening was the stranglehold he seemed to have over the townspeople, many too intimidated to gainsay his orders. A few dwarrow had run into Bard again, and invited him over for the evening meal. Eventually they’d explained their plans to him and secured his aid in speaking with several key figures in Laketown. With the help of the Laketown midwife and one of the wealthier merchants they had begun to spread the plan among the general public, slowly turning the tide of public opinion. Nori had found the darker elements of Laketown and this two-pronged attack eventually forced the Master to agree to seek refuge in Mirkwood. The odious man had somehow managed to make out that doing so had been his plan all along and that he had only hesitated in hopes of securing a better deal for the Lakemen. At the end of Bard’s tale, Rhonith thanked him for his aid, leaving the man fidgeting slightly. She gave him another kind smile; Bard was a likeable if slightly gruff Man, and he truly reminded her of old Lord Fernel, Girion’s father, who had been instrumental in the prospering development of Dale. Fernel had been just as cautious as his many times grandson, but he had had a good eye for people. He had treated equally with Thrór, and he had won the respect of the Mountain-King years before Thrór’s goldsickness made relations so unstable. Rhonith had considered it a blessing that Fernel had not seen the very worst of Thrór, the Mad King, for the man would have wept at the sight of his friend and fellow ruler so diminished. She had wept herself, though her tears were ones of rage mingled with sorrow. This descendant was hesitant, and slow to trust, she thought, but his cautious nature would serve his people well and be a boon to both her races in the coming years. Quietly she approved, knowing that the future leader of Dale would need to be able to stand up to beings older and far more stubborn than Men. He would need to earn their respect, and it seemed he was already on the right track with her Atheg; polite, not deferent, respectful, not obsequious and willing to reach compromises, work for the betterment of all their lives. His priority was his family, it was clear in Legolas’ tales of their Laketown adventure, but it was that very priority that would force him to be the leader his people needed. Bard’s strong sense of duty would allow him to counterweigh Thranduil’s more isolationist notions, and his input might well be the balance between the forceful characters of his neighbouring kings. He would not let either one gain the upper hand, not Thorin, who controlled the flow of gold, nor Thranduil whose skilled woodsmen would be needed to help the Men bring trade goods through the forest. 

 

* * *

 

 

After dinner, the three Elves retired to the healing wing, to hold informal council with Gandalf, who was still not permitted to leave his bed for more than a few moments. This forced inactivity did not please the Maia, but he was still rather unwell, both after his harrowing journey to the High Fells and the terrible battle in Dol Guldur which followed. The long journey through Mirkwood, while relatively safe, had hardly helped him heal physically, even though he had spent a large part of it being carried by Aithiel.

“Mithrandir, you are feeling better, I hope?”

“I am, my Lord Thranduil, and most anxious to set off to the Mountain. I fear grave danger is afoot – in more ways than one.”

The Elvenking tilted his head in query at the frail figure of the wizard. Nestor huffed angrily behind him. In his opinion, the Maia was nowhere near fit to leave the infirmary, let alone hare off to a dragon-infested mountain. Gandalf sent him a piercing glare, which had Rhonith and Legolas stifling laughs behind his back. Nestor was a fine healer, if somewhat recalcitrant and more stubborn than most dwarrow, and he had a tendency to be annoyingly persistent in his demands for people to remain in their beds until he said otherwise. Most of the people who entered his Hall of Healing learned that it was better to lie there quietly and heal, rather than invoke Nestor’s ire. He would never keep a healed patient out of spite, but he had been known to slip uncomfortable potions into the drinks of unsuspecting former patients who displeased him. It was not a fate many dared tempt. Nestor’s skill with medicines was legendary, rivalling the great Lord Elrond in some areas.

“Though the Enemy was routed from Dol Guldur, his Orcs have built massive armies, sheltered in the ancient fortress. These Orcs are led by Bolg, son of Azog. On our journey here, we learned that he is allied with the Goblins, whose king we killed on our way through the Misty Mountains. If the Enemy gains the Mountain, he will have an unparalleled stronghold in the North.” Gandalf grimaced.

“Angmar will rise again. Already Orcs hold Mount Gundabad. It is a source of great shame among the Longbeards that Gundabad was lost. It is the mountain under which Durin woke.” Rhonith whispered, abruptly serious. “We cannot let his plans come to fruition. The Nine have returned. Darkness is coming.”

“So there will be a battle, Mithrandir?” Legolas’s visage was grim. “You are certain? We will need to go to war?”

Thranduil stiffened imperceptibly. Legolas had never seen real war. During his lifetime, Greenwood had fought against the Orcs of Gundabad, but he had been asked to remain home while Thranduil went to war. It had been some of the worst months of his young life. With Thranduil gone, along with most of his armed forces, there had not been many elves in the forest for Legolas to rule, but he had not enjoyed the experience and told his Ada upon his return that he was not suitable for the crown. Thranduil had chuckled ruefully, but he had agreed that Legolas did not have to become king if he did not wish to. He had taken the crown of necessity, and though he knew he had done well by his people, it was not the fate he wanted for his son. When rule of the Woodland Realm passed from him, his successor would be ready for the burden. Thranduil had sworn that oath to himself after his coronation. He had never been meant to take Oropher’s throne, and parts of him resented both his father and his elder brothers for leaving it to him, even if both Bregolion and Glaerdor had died before Oropher became King. He had weathered the storm of grief after the War of the Last Alliance, and while Legolas was strong enough to cope with the loss of his father, Thranduil did not think he was ready for the responsibility of the crown. He could command patrols, and he knew how to inspire the hearts of his subordinates, but Legolas was far too… Thranduil could only describe it as too young, for the weight of a whole Realm and all its people and domains. If not for her wanderlust, he would have asked Rhonith to take up the rule of his people beside Legolas, but he would never force her to give up the freedom she never stopped hungering for after her long incarceration. He sighed, turning his attention back to Gandalf’s words with a fervent prayer that they would all live through the coming weeks.

“I am afraid there can be no doubt.” Gandalf explained, “The Orc leaders are sworn to end the line of Durin, and the line of Durin is currently in the mountain. Have you had news of the Company? Have they gained entry? Durin’s Day must soon be upon us.”

Rhonith’s hand landed softly on the Maia’s shoulder, pressing the agitated wizard back into his pillows. “Today was Durin’s Day. Our scouts have seen no reaction from the mountain yet, so either Smaug is still asleep or has been killed. We expect a raven will arrive with news as soon as they have any to give.” She smiled wanly and continued, “Hopefully it will be good news.” The old Maia patted the young hand on his arm.

“Fret not, my dear. Our friends are strong of spirit and body.” Mithrandir said, but the words were empty comfort at best, and he knew it just as well as his audience.

“Mithrandir, why did you not want them to enter the Mountain without you? The Hobbit, Bilbo, seemed quite worried that you would not catch up with them in time.” Legolas tilted his head, studying the frail-looking wizard intently.

“As you know, the power of dragons is in both their voices and bodies. I fear that the gold upon which Smaug has lain for all these years has soaked up some of his vile magicks. Even if the dragon is no more, I would not consider it safe to enter the treasury until I have checked for myself that there is no enchantment on the gold. The spells would be insidious, terribly difficult to overcome once they take hold in the soul-” The old wizard stopped abruptly, staring intently at the short elleth to his left. He frowned.

“ ** _Ashdautas vrasublatas, Lulgijak Mabrotnosh foshnu, sma kjani kulkodarob_**[122].” Rhonith spoke the dark words with a harsh cadence, a voice belonging to a creature far crueller and darker than herself. Mithrandir shuddered, while Thranduil reared back sharply. Nestor gasped in distress. She stared blindly ahead, lost in whatever horridness held her captive. Legolas pinched her arm sharply, startling her. The elleth sprung up and flinched back in a move so fluid and violent that the onlookers could only stare. Chest heaving and breath short, the blade in her hand seemingly having sprung there from its sheath, she stared at them, eyes unseeing. She did not shift from her battle-ready crouch, made no move to attack, but Thranduil was wary when he took a cautious step towards her, starkly reminded of the dark days of fighting to regain her mind after her captivity. The words she had uttered were the harsh syllables of an ancient tongue that was spoken in only one place: Mordor, by those orcs who were Sauron’s favourites. He did not know what they meant, but it could not be a good thing that had left her like a mindless creature, poised to flee or fight. He spoke in soft, gentle tones, an ancient lullaby falling soft as summer rain:

 _Losto mae, guren vell,_  
_Avo gosto i morchaint_  
_Elin lim tirar dad_  
_Tinnad ah calan faenwain_  
_Losto vi sîdh veriannen sen_  
_Losto mae pen achas_  
_Losto mae, guren vell,_  
_Ôl dartha vi i fennas._ **[123]**

 

* * *

 

 

“ ** _Ashdautas vrasublatas, Lulgijak Mabrotnosh foshnu._** ” The Orc servant of Sauron who brought her food sneered. It was the only language he would speak, the dark tongue of Mordor, and she had learned, after the first couple of years in the dark tower, that it was simply the way orcs greeted each other. The correct reply was ‘Nar udautas.’ which meant ‘Not today’ and she felt vicious glee in spitting it back at him, even though there was very little she could do to stop him, her ankle chained to the wall with mithril the Deceiver had stolen from her father when he still wore the face of Annatar. She no longer knew who she was, not really, apart from a few fragmented pieces of memory that reminded her that she had once lived in sunlight and felt love. Today, however, the Orc, who had never had a name that he had deigned to share with her, which made him Kjanisnaga or ‘food-slave’, in her mind, grinned at her attempt at defiance. Usually he snarled, and the difference in their interaction made her fearful, though she squashed the feeling ruthlessly before it showed on her face, never letting him win her fear. “ ** _Goth burguul katu,_** ” he spat, and a shiver ran down her back. “ ** _Goth marr lulgijak mabrotnosh foshnu u kulkodar!_** ” Pure fear speared through her soul. The Dark Lord was here…to give her to a dragon. “ ** _Sma kjani kulkodarob!_** ” the Food-Slave laughed harshly. The one he called Elf-Queen bared her teeth in hatred as she hissed at him, wishing for a weapon.

“ ** _Ashdautas vrasublatas, Kjanisnaga!_** ” she hurled her words at him, the foul taste of the dark language coating her tongue.

“Not today, Princess.” A new voice said, fluid Sindarin so different from the harsh Orcish syllables she had just uttered. Princess turned to look at the newcomer, who was beautiful…on the outside. Inside, she knew, Darkness reigned. The face of Annatar grimaced in disgust, looking at the orc who was still grinning dumbly at his own joke. With a push, Kjanisnaga tumbled out the door, but she did not hear him tumble down the stairs, and so she would have to wait for her oath to be fulfilled. The Dark Lord held out his hand towards his prisoner. “It is a pity you have not yet seen the beauty of my way,” he muttered, running his fingers through her mithril hair. Princess forced herself not to shudder at his touch. The Deceiver laughed, holding out his other hand. On his palm lay a single piece of red material. It looked like nothing she had seen in the parts of her life she remembered, but the Darkness fairly emanated from both the red scale and the hand that held it. She bared her teeth in a furious snarl, but the Dark Lord simply laughed. Ripping her dress open by splitting the side seam with his overly long nails, he pressed the scale against the back of her hip. Princess screamed. When the burning pain gave way to unconsciousness, she collapsed heavily on the cold dark stone beneath her feet. The Dark Lord’s laughter hung in the room for hours after he left.

 

 

“Well, you are a Little Morsel, aren’t you, my pet?” the dragon purred. The young elleth could only stare at the giant red beast, whimpering in pain and terror. “You’re mine now, Little Morsel, and dragons keep what they claim…forever.”

 

* * *

 

 

The familiar tune slowly penetrated the fog around Rhonith and her stance calmed. The fourth repetition saw her collapsing as if the strings holding her up had been cut. Only Legolas’s swift movement to catch her saved her from a hard meeting with the stone floor.

“Hush now, sellig, you are safe among friends.” The elleth nodded weakly at Thranduil’s words, hiding her face in Legolas’s shoulder and clinging to him while silent sobs shook her slight frame. She clutched at his arms hard enough to leave bruises on his fair skin, but he made no mention of it and her grip did not lessen as she calmed down slowly.

“What happened, my Lady?” the Wizard asked gently, but Thranduil was the one who replied hoarsely.

“She remembered something. It has happened before, when she has been touched by darkness, but not for many years now. Her memory rises up and overtakes her present self until she remembers only what she knew at the time of the memory.” The Elvenking shook his head sadly as the Maia’s questioning gaze passed the still entwined shapes on the floor and landed on the fair elf. “The day Smaug attacked, she was the scout who brought us news. She was coherent only long enough to convey the sight of the dragon before her mind shut down. I spent more than an hour with Nestor, singing, while my people mustered our forces. When we left, she was still not in her body. It took almost the whole trip to the mountain to return her spirit. I feared she might be lost forever, or I would have left her here while we went to Erebor.” He looked at the elleth, speaking softly and running calming fingers over her ears. “Would you prefer to spend the night under my eyes, _sellig_?” Rhonith raised her eyes and shook her head at him.

“That won’t be necessary, _atheg_. I am recovered. Or,” she paused, attempting a wry smile which utterly failed at conveying any form of reassurance to any of the four onlookers. “I am as recovered as I shall ever be. Once again, I am in your debt.” Her head sunk back onto Legolas’s shoulder, as if she lacked the strength to hold it up. Her tears flowed still, wetting his tunic, but her shaking sobs had abated. The prince looked at his father fearfully. He had never before witnessed such an event directly. The Elvenking squeezed her shoulder lightly, running his fingers over her ears and onto his son’s, surrounding both the younger elves with his grounding presence.

“No debts between us, my dear. I am only glad that I am able to help you. Do not sleep alone tonight. Tomorrow, we shall hear news of your kin, and begin preparations for fighting an Orc army. Legolas, escort Rhonith to her bed.”

The younger elf got to his feet and easily swung the slight form of the elleth into his arms, setting a brisk pace towards the door. Both onlookers noted the lack of protest from his burden and each felt a frisson of worry for the otherwise spirited and fiercely independent elleth. When they reached her rooms, he deposited her on the bed, sending a passing servant to fetch a sleeping aid from Nestor before he joined her on the soft mattress. Rhonith had curled up under her blankets, but when Legolas’ weight dipped the surface of the mattress, she uncurled from her ball, instead clinging to him like a limpet, her head resting on his chest as she let his heartbeat lull her to sleep. Her tears continued to fall.

 

* * *

 

 

When she opened her eyes, the landscape was bleak. It reminded her simultaneously of the Desolation around Erebor after Smaug’s settlement of the Mountain and the Death Marshes where so many of her companions had perished in the War of the Last Alliance. The diffuse light did not cast shadows and no noises could be heard. No birds cried, no mice rustled the grass. She could not see the sun, and without a clear heading, she set off walking slowly through the low mist. Beneath her bare feet, the ground felt harsh. She was cold, dressed only in a thin gown that was more suited for the balmy air of Imladris and could not protect her from the chill wind. As she walked, the landscape became increasingly marshy and swamp-like, threatening to drag her down into the depthless bogs with a single misstep. She kept moving. She was trying to regain warmth, just as much as she wanted to escape the bleak, colourless landscape around her. The wind picked up, with the beat of a pair of great wings. She stiffened. Turning around slowly, hoping beyond hope that she would not see what she expected to see when she did, she gasped.

“You. Y-you’re dead. Atheg killed you.” She stuttered fearfully. The dragon, hovering menacingly above her, roared with laughter.

“You will never escape me, Little Morsel. It was just a dream.” It taunted.

“No!” she screamed, sinking to her knees in despair. Dark clouds rolled in from the horizon, dimming the world. The dragon laughed, picking her up easily in a single, massive paw. Its claws made rents in her thin dress, but did not pierce her skin. She screamed. The dragon’s cruel laugh echoed across the lowlands as it flew towards a large dark mountain range.

 

* * *

 

 

Legolas spent the night much as he had the one before, running his fingers through strands of mithril silk and wishing that he could find the words to make her feel better. Instead, he sang gently, the long story of Beren and Luthien, which had always been one of her favourites, being a child of a mortal and an immortal herself. Rhonith slumbered, under the heavy influence of one of Nestor’s sleeping draughts, oblivious to the prince’s emotional turmoil. It tore at him that he could do nothing to help her, and he spent hours castigating himself, never realising that the smell of his skin and the sound of his heart were doing more to calm her dreams than he might ever know.

 

* * *

 

 

She did not remember her dreams beyond that first look at the dark mountains, but she felt more at peace than she had in years.

 

* * *

 

###### notes:

[121] I am pleased to meet you, Bard, Lord of Dale.

[122] Some day I will kill you, baby Elf-queen, little morsel of a dragon. (Orc-language)

[123] Sleep well, my dear heart,  
Do not dread the shadows.  
Clear stars look down  
Glinting with most radiant light  
Sleep in this protected peace  
Sleep well without fear  
Sleep well, my dear heart  
A dream waits in the doorway.

( _taken from_[ _http://www.councilofelrond.com/members/Neneithel/_](http://www.councilofelrond.com/members/Neneithel/) _)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More backstory references, woo. Read chapter 2 of Door, and 4+5+6 of Queen for explanations/expanded stories.  
> Happy Holidays!  
> Chapter 18 brings back the Company, but those gentlemen have gotten used to having their own say each, so it's taking a while to write it. There may be a few minor tales between now and 18 arriving.


	18. News and Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The news of victory finally arrive, and an army prepares for war. All is not well with the victors, however...

The next day passed slowly. Those who were aware of the significance of the date were deeply uneasy at the lack of news and conversation was hard to come by. Rhonith did not leave Thranduil’s side, and Legolas was never more than an arm’s reach from her. The tension among the Elves quickly spread to the Men and several minor squabbles turned into outright fights. Most of the Men now looked to Bard as their unofficial leader, and he had his hands full keeping the strained peace. The Master was conspicuously absent, having found a ‘Guard’ he could ‘bribe’ into giving him more of the Elvenking’s wine. For his part Thranduil simply put any troublemakers under the firm hand of Galion, who could always find them more work to help with the arming of the Elven host and their Lakemen refugees.

 

“ _What happened yesterday… that’s why you did not want her near the Mountain_ ,” Legolas stated quietly. “ _She was…haunted._ _Gorgred **[124]**. I was frightened for her_.” Thranduil nodded, unsurprised that his son had sought him out once more, looking out at the colourful trees around their woodland home.

“ _You have never seen her truly lost from herself, ionneg, and I hope you never will. Yesterday was the attack of a single remembrance, dragging her spirit beneath the waves of her memory. Rhonith was so very young when she was taken, and I fear she will never be healed fully_.” Thranduil’s voice was serious but quiet. “ _We have never told you the whole story, I fear, and I doubt she ever will let you see the extent of her scars. There is a reason she never wears red, a reason she does not like golden trinkets, and a reason she will not eat wild boar._ ” He sighed softly, tracing the edge of a red maple leaf. “ _If she wants you to know, she will tell you. Her story is not mine to tell. You can ask, but let her decide what to tell you, please. I worry that forcing the topic could send her back into the maelstrom of grief, and I do not know if we could pull her back if she was ever truly lost. Rhonith is strong, stronger than many I know, but she is also fragile_.” He did not say that he did not want his own fate to be shared by his son; forever longing for someone beyond the Sea. Legolas nodded solemnly. Both father and son had returned to contemplate the gently falling leaves when the elleth in question stepped through the door.

“Atheg, Legolas,” she nodded, “ _Dhe suilon_.[125]”

“Sellig,” Thranduil smiled, reaching for her ear with a gentle finger. “ _Ci vêr?_ ” Legolas smiled and copied his father’s greeting, lingering slightly at the tip of her ear.

“ _Ni vêr, atheg, ci athe. Olo-nîn duir, ni maer si_.[126]” She smiled, but the Elvenking saw the way she leaned into their touch, taking comfort from their presence as the day lengthened without news. Thranduil saw the worry hiding in her eyes, and sought to keep her mind occupied with other matters. The three elves spent time discussing the Master, who had finally been introduced to Rhonith when he accidentally came across her in a hallway. At first, the man had mistaken her for a servant, drunkenly directing her to fetch him more Dorwinion wine, but a passing guard had saved the Man from her anger at his callous disregard for someone he considered beneath him. Among Elves, there were those who served, of course, but it was a choice and the servants received the same respect afforded any other Elf in the Realm. Compared to Bard’s quiet competence, the Master’s brash disdain and self-serving personality only compounded his faults in the eyes of the elleth. Bard would be a much preferable ally.

 

* * *

 

 

Shortly before dawn on the second day after Durin’s Day, a raven was spotted flying towards the forest. It cawed its way into the large Throne Room, and went straight to the King’s dais.

“The dragon Smaug the Terrible, is dead!” The king did not shout, but his voice carried easily to every corner of the cavernous room and runners were immediately sent to spread the word amongst those who were not present. The Elvenking gazed pensively across his Court.

“ _Toltho i megîl dhîn_ , _gwedeir a ‘wethil[127]_! We march to Erebor at once, there to make a stand against the Orcs of Gundabad and Dol Guldur!” The king rose, drawing his sword in one swift move as he spoke. “ _Iston i velthas lîn ne ndagor. Gurth anin yrch![128]”_

A raucous clamour of blades being drawn and shields being struck greeted these words. One voice began the chant, but it was quickly taken by others, until the entire hall was filled with Elves all shouting one phrase: “ _Ve thorthol!_[129]”

Thranduil held his blade aloft for a minute, letting the reaction of his people echo in the caverns of his Halls. As his blade was lowered, so did the level of noise in the Throne Room, as people departed in small groups, returning to their preparations.

Within five hours, the Elven host was leaving the Halls, led by Thranduil, resplendent in his glinting silver armour, seated on his great Elk. Legolas rode behind him on another elk and Rhonith had taken the spot beside the Prince, clad in her mail and leather armour and with her hair braided in a tall mohawk braid, a style favoured by the ancient Warrior Princesses of Khazad-dûm. It exposed her elven ears, but it also made her look distinctly Dwarven to her Elven companions. Mithrandir rode next to the Elvenking on a horse he had borrowed from the Men of Laketown. He still looked rather unwell, but the fresh air had perked him up a little. Nestor had demanded a spot in the front so he could keep an eye on his belligerent patient. Mithrandir had grumbled, but eventually he had agreed to being under the Elf’s careful supervision. The healer was watching his patient carefully as he walked beside an elk-drawn cart, filled with remedies and bandages. His assistants had more wagons and carts full of medicine, tents and other paraphernalia needed to create a battlefield infirmary, for Nestor believed in being prepared and he did not think Erebor would have anything usable for healing the wounded. Behind them came troop upon troop of Elves, armed and garbed in the green and golden colours of Mirkwood. The wagons led by Nestor’s assistants and Maeassel’s underlings at the back of the army were stuffed to the brim with food and large canopy tents as well as the medicinal herbs and potions Nestor had deemed necessary.

A minor company of a few hundred Men also joined the army, led by the Master, who had commandeered a horse. Alfrid Lickspittle followed in his wake, still cowering away from the closest Elves, but trying to seem unaffected. Neither he nor the Master truly wanted to be there, but they were politically savvy enough to realise that if one wanted to remain the leader of a people undergoing turmoil, one had to _seem_ to be the only leader. None of Thranduil’s generals had wanted the Man to be the leader for the Lakemen, but the Master had proven annoyingly unsusceptible to Galion’s manipulations and Bard did not want to usurp his position, even if the Master was neither a warrior nor a tactician. A silent agreement among the Elven strategists and commanders ensured that the Man would have no influence on orders given to his men nor on the plans being made for battle, but the Master did not realise that they had manoeuvred him skilfully into a position of glorified figurehead. He sat tall – as tall as a not very tall and rather fat Man could, anyway – atop his horse, overlooking the contingent of Lakemen walking behind him. A large part of the men were armed with repurposed fishing spears, though Thranduil’s armourers and leatherworkers had created toughened leather and modified chainmail armour for most of them. A few carried swords, which had last been used before Dale fell to the dragon. Looking back at the rather pitiful contingent of human soldiers, shabby-looking compared to the sleek Elven army, Legolas shook his head.

“They have little armour, and fewer decent weapons. Will the Men be more than a hindrance to us in the fight to come? Few have received any battle-training at all, even with the drills we’ve held since their arrival in Mirkwood.”

“They are fishermen and merchants, not trained warriors, Prince Legolas,” rebuked Gandalf. “They have a right to fight for their home, same as any other creature. They may be no match to you and your kin, but do not disdain their courage. You may be glad of their aid before the end.”

The princeling sniffed haughtily and turned his eyes to the mountain. He was not convinced. The few guards he had seen in Laketown had been pitiful, even compared to his own greenest recruit. The few among them who had armour, had worn it for the journey through the forest, but the quality was overall poor. He recognised the sigil of Dale on a few pieces, which had been handed down over the generations and sent a friendly thought to Hanar. The armouries of Dale had been stocked with Dwarven mail and weapons mostly, and their work withstood the ravages of time and use far better than the work of Men. In truth, the old Dale armour was probably in better condition than most of the newer pieces. His hands went to his own trusty knives, joined by a long sword of the same type as the one Thranduil favoured, and patted them gently. He had cared for those weapons since the day they had been gifted to him, and he had killed many spiders with their blades as well as quite a few Orcs. On his saddle hung his beloved bow, along with two full quivers of arrows. He was wearing his own armour, less shiny than Thranduil’s but worthy of a Prince nonetheless. He did not know who had made it originally, but he did not particularly care. His cloak was fastened by a pin Rhonith had made for his birthday 200 years ago. It was a fairly simple thing, steel and silver inlay, with a decorative leaf pattern made with tiny jade chips, but it pleased him to wear it and he’d seen her smile when she spotted it. The cloak had been made with the pelt of a warg he had killed four winters before, and its warmth surrounded him with comfort. Elves did not feel cold or warmth the way mortals did, or so Rhonith had explained to him, and many of the Lakemen had given him envious glances when he pulled on the cloak. It was not really necessary, for the weather, while chilly, was nice and sunny, with a blue sky above them. Legolas wore it anyway.

“ _I Anfangrim en-Dyl Engrin nidhir tolo_[130] _, Legolas_. This battle will not be a war of Elves and Orcs alone, _mellon-nîn_. Thorin’s cousin Dáin is a great warrior, if a little hot-headed. He earned the epithet Ironfoot in the battle of Nanduhirion, where his father, Naín II was slain. Naín was the son of Grór, son of Dáin I, who ruled Ered Mithrim. Dáin I had three sons; Thrór, the heir, Frór and Grór. When Ered Mithrim was abandoned after King Dáin’s death in the war against the Cold-Drakes of the Withered Heath, Thrór resettled Erebor, leading a large number of his people to a prosperous future there, but Grór settled further East, in the Iron Hills where the Longbeards have always mined most of their iron. His settlement is far larger today than the one Thorin Oakenshield rules in Ered Luin, but many of his people are Ereborian refugees. The Iron Hills is home to almost 20000 Dwarrow, and Dáin’s standing army numbers at least 500 soldiers. Erebor was the Treasury, but the Iron Hills are the Armoury of the Longbeards and their skill is unparalleled. You will see the evidence of the glorious Dwarven ingenuity in weapon-crafting then. My people are fierce warriors and our weapons are strong. The Woodland Realm will not stand alone against the oncoming storm.” The soft rebuke came from the elleth beside him. Legolas flushed slightly. He had forgotten about the Dwarf-King’s kin to the East, who would have received the same message about the mountain that they had. Lord Balin would have announced their victory in every corner of Middle-Earth, he knew.

Seated on the gently swaying Aithiel, who had recovered quickly from the trip to Dol Guldur, Rhonith gazed towards the solitary peak, fondness in her eyes. Legolas looked askance at her. It was easy to forget that she was a child of two races, but sometimes her words reminded him sharply that she was both millennia older than him and had lived through many battles for either people. She had seen war. She had stood with the Durins of Khazad-dûm in the Last Alliance, and she had been there after the Fall, too, helping the Longbeards reach safety. She had fought Orcs with her mother’s kin more than once, even if she had not taken part in the slaughter that was the battle of Nanduhirion[131] as a warrior, instead employing her skills as a healer, before returning to Lothlórien’s golden boughs and her home in Caras Galadhon.

“I hope you are right, my Lady. I cannot help but feel uneasy at what we might find inside the mountain. Smaug may have perished, but his touch will linger long over the halls of Erebor.” Gandalf’s voice was solemn, his mind also far to the East.

“My heart, too, lies heavy in my breast, old friend. I can only pray that Mahal sends his Children wisdom, and that they remember your warning. I told Thorin and Bilbo the rest of my story before they left, hoping it would instil in them all some caution, though I fear it was for naught. Dwarrow are ever reckless when treasure and honour is at stake. Dark have been my dreams these past few nights.” She shuddered, not wanting to dwell on thoughts of the Mistress.

The sombre conversation petered out after that confession of worry, but the host of elven warriors marched ever onwards. At nightfall, they made camp on both sides of the river, interspersing the 300 Men among the 2700 Elves. The mood among the soldiers was merry, still close to home and hearth and aware that battle was yet days away. Friends were seen laughing together and some musicians were found for an impromptu sing-along among the Men. A few Silvans joined in on the more well-known songs, but as the hour grew late, sleep claimed their mortal companions and the songs turned to less raucous and ribald tunes, sombrely re-telling stories of past wars. By the time dawn sent the first fingers of sunlight over the horizon, the silent Silvans had almost finished packing up the camp. The Army continued, eating a breakfast of lembas and late summer fruits while marching to the beat of an old song.

 

* * *

 

 

Twelve days later the Elven host and their human allies reached Erebor. Camp was set between the western spur of the mountain and the River Running, giving them a view of the ruins of Dale. From there, most of the Elves settled in to wait for the arrival of their enemies. A few went into the ruins, looking for suitable locations for devising possible ambushes, depending on where the enemy would strike. Thranduil sent out scouts and trackers, both to sound an alarm at the approach of the Orc army and as a food gathering expedition. The hunters had to range far away from the Desolation of Smaug to find game, but it was still a useful occupation. The hunters also brought back word of the state of the land surrounding Erebor, information that would be crucial in the process of rehabilitating the mountain. In the evening, the Elvenking gathered a small group of carefully selected people to go to the Front Gates and make first contact with the dwarrow within.

 

“It worries me, Mithrandir, that we have had no further word from the dwarrow since the first raven.” Thranduil spoke quietly, but his voice was clearly heard through the twilight gloom. Rhonith nodded.

“I agree, it’s inauspicious. They made no reply to our warning of the impending battle, nor any messages pertaining to the slaying of Smaug. I fear they did not heed your warning, Mithrandir.” A heavy sigh accompanied her words, as her eyes roved restlessly across the Mountain.

“You knew it was a long shot, though I had hoped that Bilbo’s Hobbit sense had given him pause before ignoring the word of a wizard. Hobbits are usually sensible people.” He claimed, feeling rather perturbed by the thought.

At this, Rhonith barked a short laugh and chuckled fondly at the old Maia, “You forget, old friend, Bilbo Baggins went on a mad adventure with 13 dwarrow on the whim of said wizard. I’m sure that his sense is greatly questioned by everyone in the Shire. I would not be surprised if you are labelled a Disturber of the Peace hereafter.”

Gandalf shook his grey head and twinkled his eyes at her. “Ahh, but what is life without a little adventure, my dear?”

“What is that smell,” Bard asked, wrinkling his nose.

“I think I know what became of the dragon,” Legolas’s voice broke through the mirth of the two friends. Beside him, Bard frowned, eyes once more searching the foot of the Mountain and a frown pasted onto his grim face. “There is a great bonfire outside Erebor. It looks and smells foul; like burnt, rotten, and tainted meat.”

“ _Nan ear adh in elin!_[132]”

“ _Hortho_!” Thranduil gently sped up his mount, and soon the others were in complete agreement with Legolas’s description. The air in front of the Gates was foul and felt greasy on the skin.

More worrisome was the lack of any acknowledgement from within Erebor.

 

* * *

 

 

The elven group halted in front of the Great Gates and stared. The doorway was almost entirely blocked by rubble, which had to have been piled up by the dwarrow within, as the dragon had torn the great doors off their hinges in his first frenzied attack. Rhonith’s sharp eyes noted the careful way in which the stones were stacked. This was not the work of a dragon, but the careful work of her industrious kin. She breathed a small sigh of relief at the thought; if her dwarrow kinsmen were well enough to construct such skilfully made fortifications, perhaps not all was lost. The bleak landscape surrounding them only added to the decidedly unfriendly feel of the mountain. The burnt remains of the dragon lay in a massive pile a little ways from the Gate, no longer smouldering, but tainting the air with its stench. It appeared that nothing had been done to dispose of the corpse save burning the meat, a task that had not been altogether completed. Gandalf and Thranduil exchanged a worried look. Proceeding slowly, the mounted contingent approached the Gates warily.

“Halt!”

The shout had come from within the walls, and Rhonith drew a silent breath of relief. At least someone was alive. Their eyes turned up, towards a cleverly hidden plateau above the gates, perfect for ranged defence of the entrance below. A head peeked over the battlements. The white hair of old Balin was easily recognisable to keen elf eyes and Thranduil urged his elk forwards.

“Master Balin. It is good to see that you have not all perished. Your lack of reply to our missives was worrying. My congratulations on the defeat of your foe,” he paused slightly, “may the defeat of this oncoming foe be as swift and bloodless. Tell me, where is Thorin, for we much desire to speak with him?”

“Forgive me, King Thranduil, but King Thorin is not available. He is busy searching for the Arkenstone in the Treasury.” Balin grimaced, as if the message sat poorly with the old diplomat.

“Who then, will lead the dwarrow in his stead? We shall need to discuss strategies and make preparations for the battle to come. Orcs under Azog’s command are making their way here as we speak,” Gandalf was frowning, but Thranduil continued, concern coming through in his voice. “Do you have sick or injured parties? We have brought what supplies could be needed.”

Balin’s head shook slowly. To the sharp gazes of the Elves, the old advisor looked aged greatly, wearied and weighted down by sorrow and grief. They feared what might have put such a look on the otherwise calm and collected Dwarf.

“Balin, may I enter the Mountain?” The wizard’s concerned face turned intently towards the dwarf on the battlement.

“I apologise Gandalf, but we are under orders not to let any outsiders into the mountain.” Something sounded behind the old dwarf and he turned slightly before facing the elves once more. “I have to go. I am needed.” He nodded at them and disappeared swiftly.

Rhonith placed a calming hand on Thranduil’s arm. The Elvenking had stiffened in outrage.

“I wonder what has made Balin so fearful. Something is wrong in Erebor, and it is not just the smell of burnt dragon.” She whispered, eyeing the smouldering pile fearfully. With a swift command, Aithiel turned, making her way back towards the Elven Host, which had halted near Dale. Legolas sped off after, exchanging little more than a glance and a nod with his father before his mount, _Tálagor[133]_ , galloped after Rhonith’s.

 

* * *

 

 

“You are scared, _mellon_ ,” he said quietly behind her when he found her by the bank of the River Running. Aithiel was lapping calmly at the icy water. “The dragon is dead, the corpse burned. It cannot harm you.”

“Yes. I do not fear death, but I do fear the power of dragons. Even when they are gone, they…linger. My heart lies heavy, mellon.” A shudder passed through her frame, but Rhonith did not turn to face Legolas, simply staring across the river. “I remember… I remember my mother, who died when I was barely a century. I remember my father, the way he smiled the last time I saw him, his dark hair loose in the wind as he waved me off to play in the forest. I remember… the Deceiver and the Tower. I remember my sister. Thranduil. I do not know if I remember all I should about any of them. The Dragon, whose name I have not spoken for more than four thousand years of the sun, her voice… I can remember her voice. Her voice as it leeched into my head, stealing the thoughts and the memories I held dear. I remember days, weeks perhaps, where the idea that someone once loved me is all that kept me from pulling the scale from my skin, cutting it out with a sharp knife. Sometimes, I heard her sing to me, while I slept. Spells woven with her blood, her corrupted love. The Dragon once had children, hatchlings. She ate most of them, but me… me she called child, or pet, or morsel. I spent years with the knowledge of my own name lost to me. The one name that remained, I guarded more fiercely than any other I have possessed, for it is the core of me, the Deep Heart. In my mind, I am certain that without such a name, known to none but my Amad in the Halls of Waiting, I would have ceased to exist. I might have lived beyond the hoard, but I had no hope of rescue, only the slightest glimmer of possible vengeance.” Legolas dared not interrupt, hardly daring to move for fear she might stop talking. “Dragons weave spells around the names of their victims. It took millennia for the name my father gave me to be free of the taint. I still don’t use it…” She sighed, letting her words float away with the quick stream.

“Will you tell me your first name?” Legolas eventually had to ask. He took a step closer to her; close enough to feel the heat of her against his chest, but not close enough to touch her physically .

“No.” She said firmly, continuing before he had time to feel hurt by the rejection. “My first name is the Deep Name. I may share it as I desire, but it is sacred to my mother’s people, a name given in secret, when a child is born. Only the mother knows that name, until the child shares it with his or her One, if they choose to. Atya-nîn did not know it. I will tell you what he named me, if you like, in the Quenya tongue of his youth. He called me Almarië, his blessing, and the Sindar called me Galweth or Celebriel. I never liked Galweth, but Almarië… I was Almarië then. Now… Almarië is little more than the memory of bright days and a happy family. When I came back, I told them to stop calling me Galweth, for the one who had the right no longer walked these shores,” Still, she did not turn to look at him, did not choose to see the way his eyes burned with her pain. She did not move away when his hand landed on her shoulder and she tilted her head into the caress when his fingers smoothed across her ear. “For a long time, I was Celebriel… in an effort to remind myself of my past. When I chose the name Ilsamirë it was both a freedom and a curse. I removed myself further from his memory, yet I stayed the same…” she hesitated briefly, before leaning back against his chest. Legolas’ arm wrapped around her waist, reminding him of happier days involving a certain small dwarf. “I liked the name Rhonith. It is an aspect of me that is much wilder and freer than the rest of my heart, one which was not stolen away in fear and doubt. Nínimeth chose well.” He felt the tension in her when she spoke the name and knew it was for his benefit.

“She loved you.” He whispered, close but not daring to touch her pointy ear with his lips. “You miss her, I know. It is alright.” If he could avoid it, Legolas never spoke the Queen’s name. He did not truly blame her for abandoning him, but he did not understand it. Thranduil rarely spoke of those early days of his life, and Legolas had never wanted to ask, seeing the pain in his father’s eyes every time he was reminded of his lost wife.

“She loved you too, Legolas.” Rhonith squeezed the hand that rested on her stomach, “Never forget that she loved you fiercely. You may not remember her, but you should never doubt her love for you.” Shaking off her gloomy thoughts, Rhonith half-turned, giving him a smile that faltered slightly when she met his sad eyes. “Her last words… the last thing she asked me was for you. The last time she was Nínimeth in this world, she thought of you and Thranduil. She asked me to stay… for you.” The words were a low confession and she clearly saw the shock they painted across Legolas’ face. Her heat twinged. When his face smoothed into careful blankness, covering any emotion, she took a step back, releasing his arm.

Legolas was reeling. _His mother had asked her to stay, to remain on this side of the Sea? Had she wanted to go? Had she ever wanted to remain, left behind like a lost toy?_ Anger followed. _How dare she tell me that. As if I am keeping her prisoner on these shores!_ When she left his grip, he barely noticed, almost throwing himself away from her. _I am her shackles, her cell,_ his mind wailed. He heard her make sounds, but his mind did not comprehend any words and with a muttered word that might have been a farewell or might have been a curse, he strode off towards his father’s command tent.

 

###### notes:

[124] Her haunting/extreme fear.

[125] Greetings.

[126] I am well, father. My dreams were dark, I am good/better now.

[127] Fetch your swords, sworn brothers and sisters!

[128] I know your strength in battle. Death to the Orcs!

[129] We are yours to command. (lit. you command us)

[130] The dwarrow of the Iron Hills will come.

[131] Elvish name for Azanulbizar, the Dimrill Dale in Westron.

[132] By the sea and the stars! Hurry!

[133] Talagor: Fast foot. Aithiel means Spearpoint Sister.


	19. Seaching and Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first few days after Smaug's demise.

They had spent the first night enjoying Glóin’s ale and retelling the greatest moments of the battle to each other. The stories were already getting at least a slight embellishment, especially for the sake of Kíli who had missed the whole thing. Even he would not believe that Dori had made his mining chair yank Thorin out of Smaug’s actual mouth, however, but he laughed good-naturedly at their jibes.

 

The next morning, Bilbo got another glimpse of the industrious nature of Dwarrow. Ori was kept busy sketching and writing his account of their battle against Smaug, while Balin wrote letters to the Iron Hills, the Blue Mountains and the Elvenking, proclaiming their victory and the reclamation of Erebor. Óin had decided to go set up an infirmary station. Climbing around a mountain that had been subjected to a dragon for 171 years was bound to lead to injuries, he reasoned, and no one had argued with the assessment. Thorin’s first order as King under the Mountain had been chopping up and removing Smaug’s corpse from the Entrance Hall. Apart from Ori, Balin, and Óin, the dwarrow did not seem to care that they were slopping around in the dragon’s spilled blood, which was congealing slowly, though it remained warm. The dragon’s corpse was stripped of all salvageable scales, teeth, and claws. Thorin had a wild idea about outfitting the Mountain’s guard with dragonhide armour, and none of the others questioned it. Bilbo had given the bloody process one look and barely managed to retain control of his breakfast. The dragon’s corpse and buckets of his blood were dumped in a massive pit a ways off from the Front Gate and, looking grand in one of Thrór’s old fur cloaks and wearing the Raven Crown for the first time, Thorin burned it using the last of their Mirkwood tree splinters as well as some old coal found in the Forges. Bilbo found all the ceremonial trappings slightly ridiculous – even if he too liked seeing this final end to the monster that had plagued the hearts and minds of his friends for so long – but he wrote it off as a Dwarf thing and went exploring with Kíli who was banned from strenuous work. They had scrounged up enough fuel to keep one of the smaller furnaces going, making the closest parts of the Mountain somewhat habitable – even for a Hobbit unused to harsh mountain winters – and set up their bedrolls and supplies around it.

* * *

 

Bilbo watched in awe as – under Bombur and Bofur’s guidance – rubble and piece of crumbled stone was joined together almost seamlessly to block up the open hole of the Front Gate. Smaug had ripped one door off entirely, and had simply propped the gates up with bits of rock to keep the snow out. Half the dwarrow, those who had prior experience with stonework or, like Dwalin and surprisingly Dori, were freakishly strong, laboured tirelessly on the ‘door’. The rest were busy searching the Treasury for the Arkenstone.

* * *

 

Once the Gate had been blocked, the dwarrow spent their time almost exclusively in the Treasury, searching for the Arkenstone and exclaiming over the many trinkets and pretties they found.   
Kíli had fulfilled his dream of a sapphire bath, under much laughter from the Company, and most of them were bedecked with rings and necklaces, adorned with gems in all the colours of the rainbow. He had also found a new set of tools for leatherworking, and Dori had helped him reopen an old tannery they had discovered, in an attempt to cure the hide of Smaug so Thorin’s Dragon Guard could become a reality in proper armour.  
Dori had found a set of pretty silver and amethyst hair clasps, the family colours of his father’s house, and wove them proudly into his hair. Nori favoured gold, muttering under his breath as he waded through the treasure heaps. Once Bilbo realised that he was making a running commentary of the value of the different parts of whatever he picked up, the Hobbit left him to his own company. Bilbo did not need to know the going rate of rubies in the Iron Hills, _really_.   
Glóin had fallen into rapture over some golden beard ornaments, which would be simply perfect for his wife’s dark hair, and had then thrown himself wholeheartedly into the task of finding a similarly perfect gift for wee Gimli. In truth, most of the Company were overwhelmed by the sheer amount of treasure they now had access to – and ownership over, which was the main thing, of course – spoiled for choice.  
Dwalin did not seem to care for hair beads or beard ornaments, instead looking at the finely decorated weapons stashed in the Treasury. He had recovered his axe from Smaug’s skull, but the Cold Iron which had helped him penetrate the thick hide had not let the axe survive the impact with Smaug’s tough forehead, and it had splintered into warped shards. Thorin had given him an apologetic glance when he saw the broken axe, but he could not repair it yet. Keeper would need a complete overhaul, but that was not feasible until they got a proper forge going, so Dwalin found himself a suitable substitute. Dwalin had also found himself a small viol with silver inlay, but he had not yet suggested that Thorin should go find the silver harp from his childhood bedroom. They had spent hours in the Royal Wing playing together when their duties and classes permitted and he rather missed playing with his Kurdel. Even in Ered Luin, there had been time for music, even if their instruments had been far cruder than the Erebor selection. Dwalin had loved it, toying with the thought of becoming a proper musician before the dragon and his skill with weapons made music more of a fondly thought-of hobby than a way of life.   
Fíli had found a pair of matching crowns for himself and Kíli, which Thorin revealed had belonged to himself and Frerin, and the two Princes were crowned with as much solemn ceremony as they could muster. There would be an official crowning once Erebor was properly resettled, but Thorin’s heart glowed with love and pride when he saw the two dwarrow wearing the work of their grandmother’s hands. When he looked at them, he could almost see himself and Frerin as youngsters – dwarflings, really – on the days they had been given the thin circlets. It had been a momentous occasion in his young life, being presented to the Court on his tenth name-day, as it had been for Frerin[134] on _his_ tenth name-day and he had been looking forward to watching Dís receive her crown when she reached her tenth name-day. That ceremony never happened, Smaug had arrived years too early for Dís to even _remember_ Erebor, but he knew Frís had made the circlet before the attack, and when he found it, he would give it to his sister as a welcome home gift.  
Bofur did not really know what to do with himself among all this treasure. His family had been miners in the Blue Mountains since the fall of Khazad-dûm, and while they had been skilled, and their skills had seen them well-off at first, the dwindling resources of Ered Luin meant even the position of Foreman did not guarantee a lot of disposable income. He spent his time trying to separate the joy coming from his senses, ranging out to follow the unmined seams of gold running through the green stone, from his joy of knowing that their quest was over, their lives forever changed for the better.  
Bifur seemed particularly pleased with anything made with emeralds, though when he found an emerald-encrusted hat, woven from the finest wire metal and supple as cloth, he seemed to snap out of it. The hat was tossed carelessly on the pile behind him, and Bifur returned to poking his boar spear into mounds of treasure looking for the Arkenstone – or possibly just anything that caught his interest. It was hard to tell, especially when he held aloft a sapphire-lined crockpot, smilingly handing the pretty but ultimately useless item to Bombur before wandering off, whistling under his breath. The big dwarf looked puzzled for a moment, but then he shrugged and went back to his own search, the crockpot abandoned on one of the many piles of gold. Bombur had little time for the treasure, mostly looking for the Arkenstone or a few small pieces he might send home for his wife and children. He had, as the only one aside from Balin and the three Durins, chosen a building as his future home. Thorin had given them all the right to pick a house, but the choices were limited to those buildings they didn’t know would be claimed.  

While most of the Company spent their days in the Treasury, Balin was busy searching through the old records, trying to ensure that houses with prominent owners would not be claimed by anyone unrelated. Some Houses had died out entirely during their long exile, of course, and some families had re-established themselves elsewhere, but Thorin had asked Balin to ensure that descendants were found where possible. Bilbo helped him with the job often, staying away from the Treasury except for three hours a day when he helped with the search for the stone. Ori was also working in the Library, trying to seek out salvageable scrolls and tomes, when he wasn't working to catalogue the dead they moved. Those tasks were considered more important than an extra pair of hands for the search in the Treasury.

Most of the dwarrow were having fun with the treasures, lost in the sheer amount of it. The longer it took for them to find the Arkenstone, however, the darker Thorin’s mood became.

 

* * *

 

 

When Balin realised that finding the Arkenstone was much like finding the proverbial needle in a haystack – the Dwarven equivalent might very well be changed to the Arkenstone in the Dragon’s hoard after this venture, he thought – the old scribe decided that he had other things on his mind that weighed at least as heavily as the desire to find the stone. After all, he reasoned, they had reclaimed Erebor, and no one would contest Thorin’s right to the throne as the true Heir, so there was really no rush in recovering a single gem. His prominent practicality and common sense both agreed with his heart that it was time to see what had become of their old home. Taking Dwalin by the hand one morning, as the warrior was about to follow the rest of the Company into the Treasury, Balin made his way through the mountain, his feet finding the roads as easily as if he had abandoned Erebor the day before, rather than 171 years ago. Dwalin, who knew his brother very well, did not have to ask where they were going. He wanted to see their house, up on Nâludanakhbilis – Emerald Street – just as much as Balin. For his brother, the greatest lure was finding out what had happened to Skaro, who had lived with them after the death of his parents in a mining accident. For Dwalin, however, though he did not begrudge Balin his wish to find Skaro’s bones and give his One a proper burial, the lure of going home was to find their Amad. Sigrún, the Lady Cantor of Erebor, had not made it out, and none of her small family had been able to find anyone who had seen her that terrible morning. Her loss had stolen Fundin’s laughter from their lives, and it almost felt as though Fundin’s spirit walked beside his sons as they made their way slowly through the dark halls of their old realm. The two had been reunited in the Halls of Waiting after Azanulbizar had cost their Adad’s life, but the Fundinuls still wanted answers and closure. Nâludanakhbilis seemed almost untouched, while it was one of the most prominent residential areas of Erebor, if was also relatively far removed from the Kalm’uthrakh and the Treasury itself, so Smaug had not passed this way.

Dwalin did not truly think that they would find either Sigrún or Skaro at home, but he knew Balin would want to claim the house for his own, and though he would never ask, he needed Dwalin’s support when he took the first step back into his beloved home. Balin had lived in Erebor far longer than Dwalin, moving there from the Iron Hills at the age of 26 along with Fundin, while Sigrún had remained in the Iron Hills until she had finished training her last Iron Hills apprentice, the current Cantor, Loni. Dwalin had been born the year Balin had moved away with their Adad, and having spent the first ten years of his life mostly in the company of his Amad, Dwalin had been much closer with Sigrún. When they had finally moved to Erebor, Amad had been immediately elevated to the position of Lady Cantor, and her frequently busy schedule had meant that the two brothers got to spend a lot more time together, even with Balin working as Fundin’s apprentice and tutor to the Royal Children.

Reaching their old front door, marked with the rune of the Cantor, as well as the mark of the Line of Durin and the House of Fundin, the two brothers steeled themselves for whatever they might find inside. Unlocking the door with the key Fundin had carried around his neck since the attack of the Dragon, and Balin had worn since Fundin’s death, they pushed the stone door open with a slight creak. Dwalin felt faintly surprised that the hinges had not rusted shut through the years, but the feeling was lost in a powerful wave of memory. This place, where they had been a happy family, was a dead and void of life as the rest of Erebor, but Dwalin felt a powerful surge of relief that it was empty. He did not know what he would have done had they come across Sigrún’s bones, nor what would have happened had they found Skaro. The goldsmith had been his brother in all the ways that mattered and Dwalin had missed him, grieved for him, even if his loss could not compare to Balin’s. They walked slowly through once-familiar rooms, pointing out things and objects in passing that they each remembered from life here. Finding his old practice viol was a bittersweet moment for Dwalin, though finding the golden beads Skaro had been polishing in his bedroom made Balin break down completely. The unfinished gift was clearly the first step in a marriage courtship, and Dwalin could only speculate that Skaro had meant to present them at either **Khebabnurtamrâg** or at Balin’s Name-day two weeks later. Wrapping his arm around Balin, Dwalin half-carried his weeping brother out of Skaro’s old room, remaining silent, even as tears escaped his own eyes at the thought of the joy his brother had been so cruelly denied by fate and a bloody dragon. In his mind, he once more cursed the very memory of Smaug, viciously gleeful at the thought of his burnt remains smouldering outside Erebor. Leaning against Dwalin’s broad chest, Balin clutched the golden beads in shaking fists, but Dwalin just held him through the resurgence of grief as he had done before when Balin was overwhelmed by his losses.

“I knew it was unlikely either of them were here,” Balin said, an hour later, breaking the profound silence that had enveloped them once the sound of his crying abated.

“If their bones are anywhere in Erebor, we will find them,” Dwalin replied, vowing to make his words come true, even if he had to trawl through every corridor and tunnel in the Lonely Mountain to do so.

“‘ **Ala abnathiduzu** , **nadad** ,” Balin gave him a weak smile. Dwalin nodded. For the rest of the afternoon, they explored their old home, finding long-forgotten objects that sparked fond memories.

 

* * *

 

 

Óin had reopened what was known as the Ruby Ward – barazamraldûm – the larger of the two wings of the Halls of Healing, meant for everyday injuries. The other side was known as Mother’s Bosom – Amadzengar – and used for those who were either going to be sick for months or who were dying. He had opened the door to that hall first, before reading the signs, and then he had quietly closed it again. That room would be opened when the King was with him, the Healer decided. In the brief glance he allowed himself, it was clear that this room had held Dwarrow who would rather meet their Maker quickly than linger in a mountain inhabited by a dragon, and Óin had no wish to search through their mummified remains alone. The weapon hilts that protruded from the chests of the corpses in the three nearest beds told him clearly what they would find upon closer examination. The Ruby Ward was devoid of life, as though those who had been occupying its beds had all left the Mountain. Óin knew that was an unlikely scenario, the sick and injured would have had to cross debris if not the dragon itself on their way to the gates from this point. The path he had taken to get here had been troublesome enough for a hale and healthy Dwarf and definitely impassable for Dwarrow with broken limbs or other mining-related injuries, he thought. He had asked Dori and Dwalin to help him clear a path to the Healing Halls, but the two Dwarrow had to work quite slowly. To ensure that they did not destabilise the hallways by clearing supporting piles of rubble, Bombur and Bofur had to give them the all clear for each small stretch of tunnel they went through.

Although their parents had met and lived together in Erebor, neither Glóin nor Óin were born in the Lonely Mountain, and they didn’t even know which house had belonged to their family, aside from it being on Moonstone Crescent, which had been entirely demolished, so Glóin had decided to claim one of the houses on Emerald Street near Balin’s old home for his own. Óin would probably keep a room there, as it had plenty of space, but had had also chosen a small house nearer to the Healing Halls for himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Making his way to the Royal Palace – around which the most prominent residential areas pivoted – Thorin was accompanied by Fíli and Kíli, uncharacteristically sombre, as well as the silent presence of Dwalin at his back and Balin by his left side. He knew that the Fundinuls had gone back to Emerald Street to look for their old home, but Thorin had been busy in the Treasury at the time. As they walked, he pointed out places he remembered to his nephews. The silver fountain in the Palace Courtyard had been Frerin’s favourite place as a Dwarfling, while their Amadel’s solar had been Thorin’s.

Leading the way to the part of the Palace that had belonged to Thraín and Frís, Thorin felt grateful that he was able to give his nephews this experience, and slightly guilty that Frís was not there to see it with them.

The Hall of Stars made the young Princes gasp in awe when Thorin extinguished his torch. The narrow corridor had been cut along a seam of diamonds and moonstone, and Thrór’s craftsmen had – instead of cutting out the precious diamonds and the gentle moonstones – made this hallway into a starlit night. Clever use of mirrors mounted in thin shafts among the clusters of gems ensured that light refracted in the carefully cut facets of the stones, providing a brilliant sight unparalleled in any Dwarf Kingdom. Even Khazad-dûm had not boasted such splendour, Thrór had once bragged, and Thorin had easily believed it. The intricate work had taken years to complete, though the hallway was less than 7 metres long. Above their heads, constellations – properly spaced and oriented in comparison to the real night sky – were easily recognisable, even if they would not actually be visible from Erebor itself.

When they reached Thraín’s Family Quarters – containing the Crown Prince’s bedroom, Princess Frís’ Solar, as well as separate bedrooms for each of their children and a study that Thraín had used for his royal paperwork – Thorin led the way first to Frerin’s room, where the elder three were harshly reminded of the golden prince whose last laugh had still been etched on his face when he died on the blood-soaked soil of Azanulbizar. They ignored Thraín’s study, which was next, as well as Dís’ nursery which contained mostly toys, where Thorin’s was filled with the everyday clutter of a young Dwarf. The King Under the Mountain was slightly mortified to find half a love-letter he had been writing to Dwalin still on his desk, but the burly warrior snatched it up with a booming laugh and his it in his tunic before Thorin could grab it. His scowl disappeared under the soft kiss Dwalin pressed against his lips, his eyes shining with mirth. Behind Thorin, Fíli and Kíli were collapsing on his old bed, suffering through loud guffawing paroxysms of laughter. Thorin got the last laugh, however, when a giant cloud of dust rose from the ancient bed furs, almost choking both his nephews. As he chuckled, he moved across the room, to the velvet-covered harp in the corner. The large instrument, made of the finest silver in Erebor, made a soft murmur of sound as the worn cloth was pulled away from the strings. Thorin smiled, caressing the metal softly. Frís had been the one to encourage his love of music, and the harp had been a gift for his twentieth Nameday.

“Do you want to play together tonight, amrâlimê?” he asked, suddenly hoarse with emotion. Dwalin just squeezed his hand silently.

“We’ll play the Water-Dance,” he promised. Thorin smiled. It had been one of Frís’ favourite Dwarven compositions, and they had practiced for months to be able to play it for her Nameday the year Thorin had been gifted with this very instrument.

Their coughing fit over, Fíli and Kíli pressed on with exploring, gaping at the massive mural that decorated Frís’ Solar, as well as the wealth of engineering schematics that littered the floor of their grandparents’ bedroom.

“Amad was very fond of making these,” Thorin rumbled, pointing at the smaller murals set into two of the bedroom walls. “She decorated many of the rooms in the Palace, as well as the Guest-Wing, her way of making her mark on her new home after she married my Adad.”

The five Dwarrow spent their evening going through the Palace, exclaiming at the many treasures that had been left here. Once Smaug had gained the mountain, the dragon had apparently not cared to wrest its treasures from the very walls and bringing them down to the Treasury, instead seemingly considering the whole mountain his hoard. They could see the most destruction where he had been going on walks through the airier parts of the halls that fit him. The Lower Commons and the Great Market on the level of the Great Forges had been mostly demolished, and Moonstone Crescent on the upper level, which had run as the wheel connecting the spokes of streets to the central hub: the Palace that had been built around the massive Throne Room, was all but gone.

 

* * *

 

They had not found Skaro’s corpse in any of the rooms they had searched. Even amid combing through the Treasury for the Arkenstone, the Company’s hearts would not rest easily, so two members were always absent, searching out and attempting to identify the corpses methodically. Ori was usually one of them, in his capacity as a scribe for the Quest, but the others rotated the duty. The job was made easier by the Dwarven custom of wearing beads with family crests and sigils in hair or beard, but it was still a gruesome task. Fíli had decreed that no one – including Ori – should do it for more than half a day at a time, after the first night when Ori had kept them all awake – aside from the notably absent King – with his nightmares and whimpering cries. Ori had only heard and read of the dragon’s attack, seeing the direct results was much different to reading a survivor’s account. Dwalin felt for the lad. Ori had tried to offer Fíli protests, claiming that he was strong enough to handle it without problems, but the Crown Prince had stood firm. The next morning, Dwalin had volunteered to accompany Ori into the next room.

 

“There’s no shame in it, lad.” Dwalin rumbled, when Ori had squeaked loudly at the first corpse they reached. “The dead cannae harm ye. Yon dreams may fade in time, or they may not, but they do not make ye weak.” Ori didn’t seem to know how to reply, so Dwalin continued quietly. “What you see, when you close your eyes; what you think was their last moments… the images are horrid, aye, but they are only images. I would worry far more if ye didnae care, lad. Yer heart is one of your strengths, always had been, as to hear Balin speak of ye. You shouldnae lose it,” he had rumbled, trying to bring a little light back in Ori’s reddened eyes. Even through all their hardships, Ori had maintained a level of innocence Dwalin had lost well before he witnessed the horrors of war. It was worth protecting even a sliver of that innocence in the youth. Though Ori was older than the lads, he had grown up far more sheltered, having lived inside the settlement in Ered Luin all his life. Not that it had been an easy life, Dwalin knew, but he had not had to say goodbye to parents he remembered at least. “We called them battle-dreams. After Azanulbizar. There was no night in the camp, nor on the march home, that was not interrupted by screams. Sometimes, wee Ori, surviving is the hardest part, and any real warrior will tell ye they have seen what you see.” He paused there, but Ori’s full attention was on him, and Dwalin decided he might as well admit to his thoughts. “You are young, lad, but those dreams… they will haunt you for a long time. I still see Frerin fall in mine. Not often, anymore, but I see it. I watch Thorin fight Azog; I watch his oak shield shatter and his head chopped off. When I am awake, I know that never happened, but in my dreams… in my dreams I am back among the blood and the fire and the screams of agony, and I cannot escape until I burst awake, usually swinging my fist or me axe.” Dwalin had been silent for the rest of the day, apart from calling out names he found, and Ori had asked no questions, but that night Nori had squeezed his arm in gratitude and Dori had smiled softly at him. No more needed be said, and none of them – not even the lads – had bothered Ori about waking them up with his crying.

 

* * *

 

 

On the third day since the dragon’s death, Bilbo found the Arkenstone nestled inside a golden goblet and covered by a few coins. The door had been finished, and everyone had been set to work in the Treasury at once. Thorin paced across the piles of gold like a caged bear, snarling at anyone close enough to listen. He wanted them to work faster, better, _harder, NOW!_

When he touched the glowing jewel, Bilbo heard Smaug’s sibilant hisses once more. Fear made his breath catch.

_Watch him suffer… watch it corrupt his heart._

_Watch it drive him…mad_

The Hobbit shuddered.

The Arkenstone slipped into his pocket, and Bilbo did not mention it to anyone. Dread had taken root in his heart, and he watched as his dear friends slowly changed. He worried.

 

 

###### notes:

[134] Frerin was five years younger than Thorin, 19 in TA 2770, and died at the age of 48 at Azanulbizar, fighting beside Thorin who was 53. Dwarven births are so rare that children with only 5 years between them are almost considered twins. Dís’ age eludes me, but she was apparently too young to remember Erebor, so I’ve set her birth to 2765 making her a little less than a century old when she had children, which seems to be the relative norm. Fíli and Kíli are also five years apart at 83 and 78 at the time of the quest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did actually write in this what happened to Skaro, but it wouldn't work properly.


	20. Madness and Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Searching for the Arkenstone, trying to avoid diplomatic incidents, and insulting Kings. If Balin's hair wasn't already white, it certainly would be turning so now!

“Any sign of it?!” Thorin demanded harshly on their fifth day of searching the Treasury. He was dressed once more in ancient finery, bedecked with the finest jewels and the brightest gold pieces he had found. Dwalin had woven tiny winking clasps through his dark hair; the warrior’s big hands were surprisingly nimble when it came to braiding, and it had always astonished visiting nobles when Thorin revealed that he never did his own hair. He would occasionally do the boys’ or Dís’ long locks, but Dwalin’s mother had been a Stiff-beard and he and Balin kept their beards without ornaments or visible braids in her honour. Sigrún had been lost with Erebor, no word on how she had died. Since Azanulbizar, when Dwalin had shaved off his warrior’s crest in favour of the memorial tattoos for Fundin and Frerin, Thorin had rarely braided his remaining hair, so his skills were probably rusty at best. He missed the proud crest, even if he understood why Dwalin had wanted a permanent reminder of the horror they had seen at Moria. Not that either of them would ever forget – nor would anyone else who had survived Azanulbizar – but the physical representation of his grief had seemed to give Dwalin some hard-won peace in the aftermath. That did not make Thorin miss playing with the surprisingly soft strands any less, however. Dwalin’s hair looked wiry – one of the characteristics for which Stiffbeards had once been named – but it was actually softer than his own wavy locks. With a shake of his head Thorin abandoned the thoughts and memories of running his hands slowly through the mohawk Dwalin had had through most of his early life. His attention returned to the Treasury in time to catch the Company’s replies to his barked question.

“Nothing yet.” Dwalin rumbled, but the King did not seem pacified. The big Warrior shrugged, gesturing tellingly to the vast sea of gold they were trying to plough through to find one palm-sized gem. Not that any of them really employed something that could be classified as a systematic approach, but it could take _lifetimes_ to sift through all the treasure Thrór – and later, Smaug – had hoarded.

“Nothing here.” Nori said, tossing a golden goblet over his shoulder. His Thief’s Heart twinged. There was nothing here to steal! Well, there was treasure, but it already belonged to him! The conundrum of being able to steal anything he could carry every day for the rest of his life, yet never stealing a thing, was enough to make his head spin. He was currently wearing a fortune in necklaces and diamond rings, yet he felt no different than when he’d been limited to steel and ornamental bone pieces in Ered Luin. It was perplexing.

“Keep searching!” Fears were encroaching on his mind. _Without the Arkenstone, I am not fit to rule_ , he thought morosely. _Anyone could claim my throne, if they but hold the jewel…_

“That jewel could be anywhere!” Óin exclaimed. He had found a new golden hearing trumpet as replacement for the one the goblins had flattened, and adorned it with silver chains so it could hang around his neck while he searched. The rubies dotting the rim of the horn winking in the torchlight. They had not yet had time to repair the mirror system that provided ambient light throughout the Mountain, so their only light came from torches.

“The Arkenstone is in these halls - find it!” Thorin demanded, whirling away from the rest of them to pick up more shiny pieces of treasury and discard them like they were pieces of rubbish and not tokens of his people’s history.

“You heard him - Keep looking!” Dwalin called, while he studied Thorin discretely. His worries were growing. His One was troubled by something, but Thorin would not share it – not yet. Dwalin hoped that his Kurdel would not continue to brood alone, but with the way Thorin was pulling away from their company, seeking solitude in the Treasury even when the rest of them gave up for the day and turned their minds to other pressing tasks, he was not optimistic. He would try to speak to Thorin when they went to bed that night, he decided, feeling slightly better for having a plan.

“All of you - No one rests until it is found!” The King called back over his shoulder. Catching Fíli’s eye, Dwalin could see that he was not the only one having misgivings about their leader, but the Prince – who had never met Thrór and only heard the tales – shrugged off his thoughtful frown and set himself to the appointed task once more. Dwalin sighed silently, staring after Thorin’s disappearing back – still clad in Thrór’s old sable fur cloak and looking more and more like his late grandfather – before he too returned to the immense job of combing through the Treasury. 

 

Bilbo, hearing all this, looked awkwardly around the Treasury. The weight of the Arkenstone, wrapped in his spare shirt and stowed in his pack, seemed to still rest in his pocket, Bilbo felt.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin gazed upon the throne, over which the Arkenstone had been inlaid before it was lost. He spoke quietly to Balin, Dwalin, and Bilbo, who were standing behind him.

“It is here in these halls - I know it.” He said, barely louder than a whisper. He did not turn around to look at their faces.

“We have searched and searched…” Dwalin began, but Thorin interrupted, volume rising with each word.

“Not well enough!” It had been almost two weeks since Durin’s Day! The Stone _had_ to be recovered! His hands ached to hold it, to gaze upon its lustrous shine once again, to see if it matched his distant memories of its brilliance.

“Thorin, we all would see the stone returned.” Dwalin continued, reaching for Thorin’s shoulder, but the King wrenched himself away from his hold to resume pacing before the throne. Dwalin frowned.

“And yet, it is still not FOUND!” Thorin paced in front of the throne.

“Do you doubt the loyalty of anyone here?” Balin asked, fearful of the answer he saw in Thorin’s eyes, as the King stalked towards them. “The Arkenstone is the birth-right of our people.” Balin said quietly, remembering the stone’s glow and trying to appease Thorin’s barely controlled fury.

“It is the King’s Jewel.” Thorin said. “AM I NOT THE KING?!” he shouted, still staring at the spot where the stone had once sat above the throne of Thrór. “Know this - If anyone should find it and withhold it from me, I will be avenged.” He turned, walking away slowly. The three friends could only stare at his retreating form with disbelief and poorly veiled sorrow.

  
As Thorin walked away, Bilbo ran from the Throne Room. That Dwarf who called himself King… Bilbo did not think there was any part of Thorin left behind those cold blue eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

“I am worried, Balin.” Dwalin said quietly, the death of night lending his words its cover. Balin stiffened beside him. It had been days since the bedroll on his other side had held the King.

“Aye, me too, brother. Me too.” He sighed. Balin’s quiet admission seemed to hang in the air, waiting for someone to wake and listen to their worries spilling over. Dwalin was almost glad the King was not with them – in his current mood, such talk would probably be called treason, he feared.

“He shies away from the lads, from my touch, as though he cannot bear anyone’s presence.” Dwalin admitted, almost losing his nerve. Balin’s hand found his own, but there was little comfort to be had in the familiar touch when he longed for a different familiar hand in his. “His eyes… they are not my Thorin’s eyes. The soul that stares back at me is… changed.” For 140 years, they had been each other’s only family. Fundin was lost at Azanulbizar, as one of Thraín’s chief generals, and their mother had perished in Smaug’s attack. They had never shied away from talking about difficult topics in all their years together, but Dwalin had to force himself to choke out his next words. “I hardly recognise my One.” Balin made a soft sound, but his tacit agreement with Dwalin’s observation broke his heart. The older Fundinul reached out, pulling his younger brother close, like he had when the great warrior had been a tiny dwarfling scared of thunder, and rested his forehead softly against Dwalin’s. They both breathed quietly, seeking and giving comfort. Around them, the sound of the Company’s snores continued uninterrupted.

 

* * *

 

 

Balin had found a hidden corner in the storeroom off the Great Forges, where no one would bother him. He had retreated after Thorin’s latest rant about the continuing lack of the Arkenstone. There was little doubt in his mind, and he could feel the tears pressing behind his eyes as he had shared one more desperate glance with Dwalin. They were trying to keep their knowledge to themselves, but Glóin and Óin had also known Thrór in his final years and the resemblance between the King and his grandson was growing more and more pronounced as the time passed. Thorin never left the Treasury anymore, and although Fíli had assumed command in regards to their continued clean-up of Erebor’s late inhabitants, the King’s word remained law. Balin felt fear settle deep in his bones. Their message of victory had been answered by the Elves with one of Orc armies marching on the Mountain.

When Bilbo walked in, Balin’s tears had stilled. He liked the small Burglar, but this was a personal moment, when he finally admitted that the Dwarf he had followed for so long had ceased to be. The old dwarf quickly wiped his eyes before turning to the small Hobbit.

“Dragon-sickness,” he said slowly, “I’ve seen it before. That look. That terrible need. It is a fierce and jealous love, Bilbo. It sent his grandfather mad.” Balin sighed. Bilbo looked nervous. He seemed even more fidgety than when Balin had sent him off alone into a dragon-infested mountain, which worried the old Dwarf deeply.

“Balin, if-if Thorin...had the Arkenstone...” he stammered hesitantly. Balin shot him a considering look when the Hobbit cocked his head. In a flash of sudden insight, the canny old diplomat suddenly realized what Bilbo was implying, “...if it was found - Would it help?” Bilbo finally managed to finish his thought, but Balin would not give him false hope.

“That stone crowns all. It is the summit of this great wealth, bestowing power upon he who bears it. Will it stay his madness? No, lad; I fear it would make it worse. Perhaps it is best that it remains lost.” Balin’s sigh this time was heartfelt and almost halfway to becoming a sob. He had given up hope. Thorin’s salvation would not lie in possessing the Stone; if his old friend were to return to them, his sanity restored, it would only come through Thorin’s own will, which seemed more subsumed by the dragon-sickness with every passing hour. Bilbo smiled tightly, and the two exchanged no more words as they walked together towards the Records Room.

 

* * *

 

 

“Uncle has changed, Fíli.” Kíli muttered, when he felt his brother’s familiar presence coming up the stairs behind him. He was sitting on the ramparts above the Front Gates, watching the dead land around Erebor morosely while he smoked a pipe. He had snuck out of the Treasury, fed up with sifting through all the gold; so much wealth was curiously deadening, Kíli had found, and he had returned to the iron and dark silver clasps Thorin had made him when he came of age. Balin and Dwalin, of course, had never bothered finsing fripperies in the Treasury, but Kíli had noticed that most of the others had also returned to the serviceable but cheap trinkets they had worn on the trek across Arda. Even Dori, who was always the most polished of them, had given up the multitude of amethyst and silver beads that had decorated his hair, and returned to his normal steel and silver. Fíli could only nod and join him, pulling out his own pipe. The two brothers sat quietly, staring across the bleak landscape towards the ruins of Dale. Neither spoke for a while.

“I know, Kee.” Fíli mumbled, “But Thorin doesn’t seem to see it. I heard him yelling at Dwalin yesterday.”

“Uncle yelled at Dwalin? Like when Dwalin broke his favourite pipe?” Kíli asked. He didn’t really think it was, but he was hoping it wold be. His brother shook his head sadly, dashing Kíli’s hopes in an instant.

“No, Kee. Like Dwalin was just his guard.” Fíli frowned. “What’s that, over by Dale?” he pointed. Kíli squinted in the sunlight.

“It’s the Elves… it’s Thranduil’s army!” Kíli shouted, shading his eyes with his hand.

The two princes ran towards the Treasury.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo sat in one of the halls adjoining the Great Forges. His fingers fidgeted nervously with the round object in his pocket as he considered his unsettling conversation with Balin. Thorin, walking by on his way from the Throne Room to the Treasury, spotted the small movement.

“What is that?!” The King growled, moving quickly over to the smaller Hobbit. Bilbo jumped up from his seat, clenching his fist in his pocket. He looked up at the dark-haired Dwarf nervously. “In your hand!”

“It-It’s nothing.” Bilbo stammered nervously. His thumb rubbed over the smooth surface almost without thought.

“Show me.” Thorin hissed.

“It…” The Hobbit held out his hand nervously, still closed around its small burden. “I picked it up in Beorn’s garden.” He opened his fist, slowly revealing the gleaming brown shell of a large acorn.

“You’ve carried it all this way.” Thorin whispered.

“I’m going to plant it in my garden, in Bag End.” Bilbo explained softly, running a finger over the smooth surface.

Thorin smiled weakly, “That’s a poor price to take back to the Shire.” His anger faded slowly, turning into a slightly fonder expression as he looked at the small acorn. It reminded him of the sun-drenched days the Company had spent in Beorn’s Hall. Thorin himself had been in considerable pain, both physical from the Orcs’ weapons and the warg’s teeth as well as emotional anguish from the stories they had been told by the half-elf who claimed to have rescued his smallest friend from the tunnels under the Misty Mountains. He was not convinced his clever little Hobbit couldn’t have found his own way out. She had clearly been sent by Thranduil to ingratiate herself with his Company, spying on his every move.

“One day it will grow. And every time I look at it, I’ll remember - remember everything that happened, the good, the bad. How lucky I am that I made it home.” Bilbo said, eyes shiny with the thoughts of his far-away home. They smiled at each other, and, for just a moment, Thorin seemed to be looking back at him from those Durin blue eyes. Bilbo struggled to find the words, “Thorin, I...”

Suddenly, Fíli and Kíli came running, interrupting whatever Bilbo had meant to say. “Uncle, the Elvenking is here… and an army. There’s hundreds of them.” The shutters slid back behind Thorin’s blue eyes, and his smile faded instantly into a stern, uncompromising expression when a dark scowl pasted itself across his face as anger brewed in their depths. “Call everyone to the gate.” He tossed over his shoulder as he strode off towards the Treasury once more.

* * *

 

“Balin! Dwalin!” Thorin shouted. The two brothers looked up warily, hiding the uneasy glance they shared before they turned around to face their King.

“Yes, Thorin?” Balin said slowly.

“My nephews are telling me that the treacherous Elvenking is standing on or doorstep with an army!” The King scowled. “I should never have trusted that cursed half-breed and her pretty words! Thranduil knows only betrayal and deceit! We must prepare for a siege. Dwalin, find weapons and armour for everyone, Fíli, go help him. Balin, you will speak for me. Kíli, return to the Treasury. It is even more imperative now that we find the Arkenstone swiftly. If Thranduil wants a war, we will give him one!” he roared, whirling back towards the golden hoard. The four other dwarrow walked off morosely.

* * *

 

 

Standing on the rampart, Balin wanted to hide from the sight of the small group by the Front Gates. He saw Thranduil on his giant elk, in the company of Bard, Legolas, Ilsamirë, and – surprisingly – Gandalf.

“Halt!” he shouted. The group came to a stop slightly before the Gate. The Elvenking rode in front, looking up at Balin from below. Though Thranduil was as stoic as Balin had ever seen anyone be, the old advisor would have sworn he could read relief in the Elf’s ancient eyes.

“Master Balin. It is good to see that you have not all perished. Your lack of reply to our missives was worrying. My congratulations on the defeat of your foe,” Thranduil paused slightly, “may the defeat of this oncoming foe be as swift and bloodless. Tell me, where is Thorin, for we much desire to speak with him?”

“Forgive me, King Thranduil, but King Thorin is not available. He is busy searching for the Arkenstone in the Treasury.” Balin grimaced, silently wondering what in Mahal’s name he was supposed to do or say. Thorin had not given him any orders, and this sort of diplomatic dance was vastly different to the meetings he had presided over in Ered Luin. The Elvenking was as temperamental and mercurial as any Dwarf-Lord, but he was also far more cunning and powerful than any one Lord could ever hope to be. Thranduil controlled much of their future prosperity, and offending such an important ally would not be wise. The fact that Thorin refused to greet him was already a snub, and Balin knew that the Elvenking would consider it such, possibly doing irredeemable harm to their fragile alliance before it had even been properly consolidated. He sighed. In his heart, he knew that Thorin’s words as he sent him up here – ‘cursed half-breed’ and ‘treason and deceit’ – were undeniable proof that Thorin was not in his right mind. The King himself had vouched for the peredhel below, when Balin had been outraged at her inherent duplicity in concealing her parentage, to have him go back on his word so easily was troubling at best, disastrous at worst.

“Who then, will lead the Dwarrow in his stead? We shall need to discuss strategies and make preparations for the battle to come. Orcs under Azog’s command are making their way here as we speak,” Gandalf seemed to be frowning up at him, but Thranduil continued, concern coming through in his voice. “Do you have sick or injured parties? We have brought what supplies could be needed.”

 “Balin, may I enter the Mountain?” The wizard’s concerned face turned intently towards the dwarf on the battlement. Balin’s head shook slowly. Thorin would never allow that in his current state. He wished he did not have to bar the wizard. Perhaps Gandalf might have been able to halt whatever was changing Thorin so rapidly.

“I apologise Gandalf, but we are under orders not to let any outsiders into the mountain.” Balin feared that he could not hide the sour taste those words left in his mouth and Gandalf’s frown only deepened. 

“Balin, Uncle wants to talk to you,” Fíli spoke quietly from the doorway behind the old dwarf and Balin turned slightly to nod at the young Heir before facing the elves once more.

“I have to go. I am needed.” He nodded at them and disappeared back into the mountain.

 

* * *

  

“Thorin, the Elvenking wishes to speak with you.” Balin said tiredly. “Azog is marching on the Mountain.”

“I’ve no wish to speak to that **mibhilkags ahrânul**[135]!” Thorin growled.

“At least go see him.” Balin hesitated briefly before ploughing on, regardless, “We cannot afford to offend him, while our nascent alliance is still fragile. Tharkûn has come with him too.” _You at least trusted the Wizard some,_ Balin thought, but did not add, knowing it would be no use with the way Thorin’s face twisted in anger at the mention of Tharkûn.

 

* * *

 

“That Wizard,” Thorin scoffed, ignoring the look on Balin’s face. “I suppose I owe him the courtesy of seeing him once before we send them off. He was of some help during our quest before he abandoned us.” Thorin strode toward the blocked off gate, calling the other Dwarrow to him.

The dwarves lay down their tools, picked up their weapons, and followed him up the stairs Bombur had created in the blockage, all the way to the ramparts at the top of the gate from which they had the best vantage point over the plain in front of the gate. They see the walls of Dale filled with Elves ready for war. Thranduil was mounted on a large Elk, stopped in front of the gate. Behind him rode Tharkûn, the Man he recognized as Bard as well as the slender Prince and the mithril-haired elleth who had wormed her way into their Company from the moment they’d met her. Thorin scowled. Dangerous snakes, the lot of them.

“Hail Thorin, son of Thraín!” Thranduil cried loudly, “We are glad to find you alive and unharmed.”

“Why do you come to the gates of the king under the mountain armed for war?” Thorin spat angrily. This was proof – if he had needed any – that Thranduil could not be trusted as an ally.

 

* * *

 

 

“Because war is coming for the Mountain, King Thorin. Azog and his spawn, Bolg, are leading an army of Orcs to kill you and the Goblins have been made their allies.” Thranduil replied simply, keeping a calm façade even as his heart twinged with the pain he could see on Rhonith’s dear face. He knew that she – like he, himself – had recognised the symptoms of gold sickness in Thorin. He spared a thought to wonder at how quickly it had infested Thorin’s mind, but it was just idle musing. The _how_ did not matter; only the consequences did, and he could see that Thorin did not believe their dire warnings.

“Why does the king under the mountain fence himself in? Like a robber in his hole.” Bard asked, and only Thranduil’s long experience and great self-control kept him from clouting the man about the head. He saw the flash of anger that crossed Rhonith’s face before she too smoothed her features into blankness, and privately vowed that _someone_ would teach the Bargeman diplomacy post-haste.

“Perhaps it is because I am expecting to be robbed.” Thorin shouted down, and Bard winced when the insult he had casually thrown at the Dwarf was pointed out by a very quiet Legolas. Implying that Thorin had no right to be in the Mountain and the King Returned was a mere robber and opportunist was hardly grounds for a prosperous future relationship between their two kingdoms. He opened his mouth to shape some form of apology, but the Elvenking stopped him, moving his elk slightly forwards so it blocked Bard from view of the Mountain. Legolas’ hand clamped tightly around his arm ensured that he did not even consider opening his mouth again.

“My lord - We have not come to rob you, but to give fair council and aid to our allies. Will you not speak with me?” Thranduil tried again, keeping his simmering temper from colouring his voice. He hoped it was not yet too late, that they might still be able to reach the core of the Dwarf who was Thorin, the son of Lothig, whom he had genuinely enjoyed conversing with and hosting in his Halls. He had been sceptical at first, when Sellig had called them honourable Dwarrow on a noble quest, wanted to remind her that in his eyes, honourable Dwarrow were few and far between. Thorin might be of Hanar’s stock, but he also carried Thrór’s blood, which now seemed to run stronger than that of the gentle and slightly mischievous blacksmith who had been his other grandfather. Once again, Thranduil wondered what Thorin would have been like if Thrór had died in Erebor rather than Hanar, as futile as the thought was. So much might have been different in the lives of all of Durin’s Folk, if Smaug had killed Thrór.

 

Thorin nodded, stepping away from the battlement with a hissed command at the rest of the Company, and made his way down the stairs to the base of the blockaded door. Through a cleverly designed hole in the fortification, he could see out, and speak with the treacherous elf without leaving the safety of the Mountain’s bosom.

 

Thranduil swiftly dismounted his elk, striding across the bridge towards the blockade. Above him, the Company watches silently and behind him, their allies stay quiet too. Thranduil bent slightly, looking at Thorin through the small hole. Up close, the ravages his tormented mind had already inflicted on his body were almost staggering. The intelligent blue eyes had turned darker and a cruelty of spirit lived there. Thorin’s face was carved with deep lines of grief and anger.

 

“I’m listening.” The Dwarf-King said haughtily. Above him, Kíli would ensure that the Elf-Prince did not try to shoot through the gap, and it would be stoppered once more when he had sent the treacherous bastard off again.

 

“On behalf of the people of all our lands, I ask that you join us for War Council. The Orcs are coming, Thorin, and I have no wish to see the strength of the Mountain fall into the hands of the Enemy. Will you accept our aid and alliance?” Thranduil asked once more. As he peered into the gloom of the closed-off mountain, he fought to keep his surprise from showing on his face. Thorin looked like a wholly different Dwarf to the one he had said farewell to at his own Gates more than two months before.

 

“I will not treat with any man or elf while an armed host lies before my door.” Thorin sneered, “I have no faith that your words are true; why should you help us now when you abandoned my kin to starvation and fear before? I think it far more likely that _you_ will besiege my Mountain until I am either dead or too weak to defend it. Then you will attack, taking the treasure for your own!” his voice rose steadily as he spoke, ending in a loud shout. Outside the Gates, Thranduil showed no reaction to the accusations hurled at him.

  
“That armed host will defend this mountain, if we can come to terms.” Thranduil sighed. “I see Thrór in you now, Thorin, and I am saddened by the sight. Mithrandir’s warning should not be taken so lightly. My people are here; ready to lend you our aid.” He did not address the Dwarf’s accusation, for that topic had been cleared between them before, and Thranduil felt no need to rehash old arguments.

 

“Begone, snake. You may have dressed up someone to act as Gandalf, but I will not be fooled by your pathetic theatre! There are no enemies here but you and your greed!” Thorin shouted, before turning sharply on his heel and walking away from the hole. “ **Igjijiyê!**[136]” he bellowed, and the Company silently abandoned their place on the ramparts to follow the King back inside the Mountain. Bilbo cast a long look towards the four mounted figures. Gandalf did not look like an impostor to _him_ and Bilbo fervently wished for the Wizard’s presence on the other side of the blockade. Perhaps Gandalf’s magic could help Thorin see sense.

 

“What are you doing?! You cannot offer them such insults. Thranduil was kind to us, for Ilsamirë’s sake. This is not the way to repay them. Thorin, please, you cannot go to war with the Elves.” Bilbo cried, not noticing Dwalin’s hand trying to stop him from walking up to face the King, nor Balin’s eyes, pleading for his silence.

“This does not concern you.” Thorin replied darkly, temper brewing under his skin at the Elvenking’s audacity. Bilbo’s unveiled concern only made him despise Thranduil more. To instil such fear in his smallest companion was an insult to his skill as a protector. He scowled at Bilbo.

“Excuse me?!” Bilbo cried, aghast. “In case you haven’t noticed, there is an army of elves out there. Not to mention the many – _many_ – Orcs on the way. We-We are in fact outnumbered.” Bilbo said, fearfully looking at the dark light in Thorin’s eyes. He did not think Thranduil would attack them, but as he had once heard Legolas say, ‘ _What is a century to an elf but a blink of the eye? We are patient, we can wait_.’ The Elves would have no need to kill them, they could let them starve with a very simple blockade, await Thorin’s death, and hope that Fíli would be more reasonable. That would probably not happen before the Orcs arrived though, but the Elves _didn’t have to help them_. Fear and dread, which had hovered around the edges of Bilbo’s mind ever since the Door had opened, settled firmly in his stomach. Thorin turned back, the smile on his face enough to make Bilbo whimper.

“Not for much longer.” The King said. Bilbo shook his head.

“What does that mean?” he asked, trying to mask his panic.

“It means Master Baggins, you should never underestimate dwarrow.” Thorin said calmly, turning to face the whole group. “We have reclaimed Erebor - Now we defend it!” he shouted powerfully, sweeping them all along with the feverish need that coloured his voice.

 

###### notes:

[135] Dishonest elf!

[136] Follow me!


	21. The Fellowship and the Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The news reach the Blue Mountains!  
> Chronologically this is right after the Elves have arrived at Erebor.

When the raven winged its way into her brother’s study on the morning of ‘ **afdehar** **gimonsasêkh **[137]**** , Regent Dís was not alone. With her sat Vár, thankfully as adept as her husband when it came to ledgers, Dís thought, sending a grateful thought to the Maker for sending her such a stalwart friend. Vár, who was now almost eight months pregnant  and had moved into her cousin’s house almost four months before along with her son Gimli, sighed.

“There’s a bird, Cousin,” she said quietly. She would have left her chair, but these days that was a two-man job, and Dís was closer to the window, even if her head was stuck in the big ledger that tallied the taxes that had been paid to the crown that quarter.

“A Wha’” Dís said, lifting her head to stare blearily at Vár. The pregnant dwarrowdam sighed heavily, gesturing for Dís to hand over the large tome. “A raven, dearest. At the window.” Vár pointed, before she began adding up numbers and columns at twice the speed Dís managed. Her cousin groaned.

“Thank you, sweetling. My eyes were starting to double.” Dís smiled at her cousin and friend, who shook her head, amused by the Princess almost despite herself, before she turned to the raven, “I am Dís, **Uzbadnâtha** **Sigintarâgu**.” She said solemnly. The bird bowed regally, its eyes shining with intelligence beyond the common Raven. Dís’ heart did a funny little jump in her chest when she realised where it must have come from.

“Sister, we are home!” it cawed, Thorin’s voice instantly recognisable. Vár fell off her chair. The raven looked smug – Dís was not sure ravens were capable of smugness, but this one exuded a level of smugness hitherto unparalleled by anyone aside from Nori when he could report on a plot against her sons’ lives…and hand her the braids of the plotters at the same time. Dís could not help but smile. The stories she had heard of the raven messengers of Erebor… were true. The ancient line of **bahazanâsh ‘Urdul**[138] did not simply deliver messages; they copied the exact voice of the sender, adding the inflections and speech patterns of that individual. This made messages very difficult to fake, which was why the Ravens were so revered among her people. The raven shot a beady eye at Vár, who was climbing to her feet with a fierce glare at the bird, and continued, “The dragon has been killed and our legacy restored to us. Much work is needed to make the Mountain a true home, but I am optimistic. Oh, Dís, I wish you were here to see its splendour with me as I rediscover all our old haunts. Everyone is well; Fíli and Kíli send their love.” Dís did not care that tears were rolling down her cheeks, Vár herself had suspiciously wet cheeks too when she caught her up in a bone-cracking hug. Dís winced slightly; Glóin’s wife was certainly stronger than many, the result of a life working stone when she wasn’t out with the trade caravans. The raven preened; proud that it had remembered the long message correctly.

“This calls for a celebration,” Dís said, before hollering for Gimli. The red-headed lad came running, having learnt over the past few months that Dís’ hollers were not to be ignored on pain of, well, pain; most likely delivered in a sparring match that left him feeling decidedly like a green recruit with the amount of times he landed on his arse. “Gimli! Fetch the bards, fetch the lords, fetch everyone! We’re going home!” the exuberance in the room was such that Dís couldn’t help but picking up Gimli’s shorter form, though she wisely stayed away from Vár, whose stink eye made her think better of the impulse instantly. Instead she turned to the Raven once more. “How long did it take you to fly here?” the bird tilted its head, peering searchingly at the dwarf-lady.

“Roäc, son of Cärc, taught Ribril what you two-legs call a week.” It said, thinking some more. “Two of two-leg weeks and one night Ribril has flown since Ribril left home-nest.” It finally said, nodding to itself. Dís nodded once, running into her kitchen and rummaging loudly before returning with a small reward for the Raven.

“Can you take a message back to the Mountain?” Dís asked quietly, after Gimli had run off to spread the word. The raven lifted its head from the bowl of raw goat meat that she had set before it. It cawed once.

“Ribril, daughter of Roäc, will speak your words, Dwarf-Lady.” When she used her own voice, Ribril’s pitch was higher than any Dwarf could claim, and yet her imitation was such that she could mimic both Thorin’s deep voice and Dís’ own alto when she repeated back her words:

“Nadad, good news indeed. Give my love to all of you. Preparations will start at once. Send back a raven with a full report of what you need and I will tell you when the first caravans leave. You’d better not be married before I get there!”

“Can I add something?” Vár said, looking up from the ledger she had been writing in carefully. The raven bowed. “Will you tell my husband, Glóin Grórul that he will be a father once again before he can make it home, but that I expect him to arrive with all due haste to help me move our family.” With another loud caw, Ribril repeated both their messages, even including Vár’s deadpan tones. When Dís nodded, the raven flew off with another bow.

“You know…” she said, grinning mischievously at Vár, who returned the grin gamely.

“Yes, Cousin?”

“I _really_ wish I could see Glóin’s face when that message is delivered.” Dís crowed, feeling like a much younger Dwarrowdam up to mischief with her friends. Vár smirked smugly.

“Yes… so would I.” Vár said, her voice trembling with the force of holding back her laughter. When she caught Dís’ eyes, her self-control failed and the two dwarrowdams burst into loud peals of laughter, slightly tinged with hysterical relief at the news that their far-away loved ones were safe.

 

* * *

 

A young Dwarf running through Thorinuldûm was not an uncommon sight; often it was one of Athalrún’s brood, though most mothers let their Dwarflings run around freely in the better areas of the settlement. The darker outskirts, where Thorinuldûm backed onto the ancient ruins of Belegost, were off-limits for anyone who had the sense to stay away, as it was the territory of the King of Thieves more than the King of Durin’s Folk.

There wasn’t actually a King of Thieves, the Black Owl had assured the Royals, though, by necessity, the one who was called the Shadow-man had a lot of power behind his words among the less lawful inhabitants of Ered Luin. No one knew his real Outer-name, which among criminals was guarded almost as closely as the Inner-name, but he was one of the best thieves in the mountains.

As he ran, Gimli spread his news to everyone he met, whether he knew them or not, and soon the cry was taken up by many voices as Dwarrow poured into the streets in an impromptu celebration:

“Erebor has been reclaimed!”

 

* * *

 

 

“Is it true?” When a breathless Athalrún burst into Dís’ kitchen, the Princess could not help but smile. Athalrún’s cheeks were flushed with colour and her eyes sparkled with hope. In her arms, little Bomba slept peacefully, one hand curled around the braid in her Amad’s beard.

“Aye, ‘tis,” Vár muttered, concentration clear on her face as she worked to ensure that Dís’ hair was impeccably plaited. With a joyous cry, Athalrún danced around the kitchen, waking her daughter with her laughter.

“You hear that, **kafnith**[139]? Your Adad is alive and well!” the pebble, too young to do much beside blink and smile still seemed to reflect her mother’s happiness. Dís chuckled.

“Thorin’s message said only that the dragon is dead and our kin are well in Erebor. I expect an extensive report with his next raven, however.” Athalrún nodded, but her thoughts were obviously half a world to the east, with her beloved husband and those she considered brothers.

“The dwarflings!” She suddenly gasped. “I have to tell my children!” with that, she flew out of the building once more. Behind her, the Princess laughed at Vár’s expression.

“That’s the most excited I have ever seen your friend, cousin. Not even at the birth of her daughter did she smile so brilliantly.” Vár said, shaking her head and releasing Dís’ dark locks.

“Athalrún is not a dam to wear her heart on her sleeve, cousin,” Dís rebuked gently. “She was happy at Bomba’s birth, but her joy was marred by the absence of those who should have been a part of it. She is not like you or I, used to going for months without news. To my knowledge, none of the ‘Urs have been gone from Thorinuldûm for longer than a fortnight since the birth of Bolbur. Do not begrudge her the joy of knowing her kin are safe.”

“And those three – aside from Bifur, I guess – are not exactly warriors. I suppose Athalrún’s fears were well-founded. At least we know that those we send out have a high probability of surviving the dangers of the world.” Vár sighed. “I will still sleep better when my Glóin is back in my bed. You know, I miss his snoring.” At that statement, Vár looked so disgruntled that her cousin could not help the laughter that tumbled from her throat.

“Miss Glóin’s snoring?!” she hooted, almost falling off her seat at the kitchen table. Vár scowled.

“I know!” Shaking her head, the dark-skinned dam tugged on one of the braids she had just put in Dís’ beard. “Fit to wake giants, my Glóin, but I miss it all the same. It’s maddening.” Dís’ tears of laughter eventually subsided into watery chuckles. Since Vár and Gimli had moved in, her large house seemed less quiet, but she also found herself listening for the familiar sound of Dwalin and Thorin snoring when she got up at night for a cup of water and feeling oddly bereft when she caught herself doing so. Shaking off her sudden melancholy, Dís turned back to Vár.

“So, how do you want your braids for the feast?”

 

* * *

 

 

The feasting that night was glorious. Dís had – in solidarity with Vár, who felt queasy from the taste of ale, which the Dwarrowdam had bemoaned in a very long soliloquy – stayed sober, but she had enjoyed watching her people revel in the news of their returned home. Athalrún had been at Vár’s other side, holding little Bomba as she calmly watched her children run about the Common Hall which had been turned into an impromptu ballroom. Her eyes were peaceful, for the first time since she had watched her family set off for the Shire, the shadows that haunted her gaze banished with deep joy. The small pebble slept through most of the proceedings, and Dís felt a stab of longing for the days when her own sons had been small. She permitted herself to wonder how much they would have changed when she saw them again, her golden boy with his father’s smile and her Thorin copy with Frerin’s easy grin. With Erebor reclaimed, the loads on her sons’ shoulders would weigh far heavier than the duties of the Exiled King’s Heirs, she knew, but Dís was confident that her boys would manage. They had raised them well, turned them into dwarrow to be proud of, even if they were nothing like her father or grandfather. Her boys emulated Thorin, which was not always a good thing, in Dís’ mind, but rather a grouchy Uncle as a role model for the future rulers of Durin’s Folk than a mad grandfather or a meek father who avoided anything to do with governing, like she and Thorin had had, she felt. Thorin had always recognised his responsibility, not only to her and their Amad, but also to their entire Folk, and though she had screamed at him when he proposed to take back the Arkenstone and Erebor, had called him all the names in the book plus a few more for good measure, she was proud of his daring to try. She was even prouder that he had succeeded, and participated gladly in the many toasts to her brother’s name that dotted the festivities. Her cup contained nothing stronger than a weak apple cider she had been gifted by one of her traders. It was Hobbit made, and quite tasty she had to admit.

“My Lady, when will the first caravans set off for Erebor?” the oily voice of Lord Sviurr, slithering into her ear from over her shoulder brought Dís abruptly out of her thoughts. Sviurr, one of Glóin’s competitors – Dís tried not to let that affect her view of the Dwarf, though Sviurr’s personality made it difficult for her to remember that she should treat her subjects equally. Vár, however, had no such problem.

“Tonight is for feasting, Sviurr,” she snapped, making Athalrún look up, startled out of watching her eldest, Bolbur, trying to teach his sister Fjelarún the steps of the Aznân’af. Bolbur, for all that he looked like brawn on two legs, was surprisingly graceful when he moved. Fjelarún, a tiny thing with her mother’s brown curls and very little beard, hopped round her brother, looking like a confused bird but her glowing smile warmed Dís’ heart as she followed Athalrún’s eyes, letting Vár fend off the first attack from the hounds. “Not for thinking about lining the pockets of experienced caravan leaders.” She huffed. When Sviurr pranced away in a stormy mood, Vár grinned unrepentantly at Dís. “Especially because I’ve already secured Ginnar and Nýr for your caravan, my ladies. I will be remaining in Ered Luin until the pebble is strong enough to travel,” she patted her bulging belly, “but I will ensure that you arrive as soon as possible.”

“I appreciate it, Cousin,” Dís couldn’t help but smile. Vár’s deviousness was a force to be reckoned with, and she could only be thankful that the Blacklock dam employed her wiles in Dís’ favour. “We will need to begin writing up those who will be in the first wave of re-settlers. I’m sure we’ll need plenty of craftsmen to ensure Erebor is safe once more.”

“You’ll need those few who have experience with food growing, too,” Athalrún said quietly. “And guards. Erebor is a realm unknown to many as anything but the legends of treasure. Many eyes will turn to the Mountain with greed and avarice.”

“Will you be joining us, then, Athalrún?” Dís asked. Even if Bomba was now five months old, Dís was not sure she would have dared travel with a pebble that young.

“Myself and all my children, along with all we can carry from both our and Bofur and Bifur’s house,” Athalrún replied, calmly wiping Borkur’s food-stained face when the dwarfling scampered past with a gaggle of his age-mates. “I planned it with the Urs before they all left. If they were successful, we would leave Ered Luin for good, Dís, and I do not intend to be parted from my husband nor leave my children without their father for a day longer than I have to. We will be going with you. Bolbur and Blidarún are old enough to be of some help, and Blákur will help me keep an eye on Fjelarún and Borkur. Our wagon is already made, and Bifur carved many chests in preparation all through last winter. We shall be able to leave in less than a week, my Lady.” Athalrún nodded, smiling easily. Dís gaped. Even she, arguably the one closest to Thorin aside from Dwalin, had not had that much faith in her brother’s success.

“Is Bomba not too young for travelling?” Vár asked curiously. The pebble was currently asleep, swaddled in her blankets on Athalrún’s lap.

“No. Bolbur was actually born on the road. Hobbits do not bear their young as long as Dwarrow, which was a surprise with him. He came out fully grown about three moons before the time the Healers had said,” Athalrún grinned, caressing Bomba’s round cheek. “I had him strapped to my chest for the rest of our journey. It was meant to be my last caravan job before my laying-in, but I gave birth two weeks outside the Blue Mountains. We were passing a Man’s village at the time and their midwife taught me a way of wrapping a long piece of cloth about myself that will not unravel and will hold the pebble securely while I walk. Bomba will be snug and warm for our journey.”

“I can see you will put me to shame, Lady Athalrún,” Dís laughed, while Vár giggled beside her, “Your industry is to be commended. I say we leave in two weeks with the first wave, and let those who remain behind leave in spring. The journey will be arduous in the deep of winter, but I find I am anxious to leave, to see my sons.”

“We will not, Lady Dís. Vár will need us ere long, but I doubt her pebbles will come for a month yet. We shall leave when they are born.” Next to Dís, Vár was gaping. Though she had made friends with the oft-quiet blacksmith, she had not assumed that Athalrún thought so highly of her as to put off her reunion with her own family to help Vár increase hers.

“That is kind of you, Athalrún,” Vár said hoarsely, choking back the sudden attack of emotion before it swept her off her feet.

“We have been together all these long months, watching your children grow heavier. You were there for me, when my Bombur could not; I shall do no less for you.” Athalrún said with quiet certainty.

“True. So be it, Cousin,” Dís smiled, happy that her two friends were becoming the close friends she knew they could be. Vár, especially, did not have many friends outside Glóin’s relations, and Dís had never considered that she might have needed some before the Quest had made leftovers of them all, drifting in their daily lives while waiting for news. “The Fellowship of Dwarrowdams Remaining Behind shall tarry a little longer in Ered Luin.”

The three of them laughed. The little nickname had been the result of a drunkenly celebratory Dís – who had been enticed to drink for three – on the night of Bomba’s birth. In the midst of her raving about absentee fathers and other relations, Dís had had a stroke of inspiration and drunkenly declared Vár and Athalrún her Company, nay Fellowship – and obviously far superior to Thorin’s bloody Company. Athalrún, exhausted in bed, but glowing with gentle happiness had simply smiled at Dís, who was drunkenly cooing at her new daughter, and shared a conspiratorial grin with Vár. Neither of them would ever let Dís live down the moment she declared herself Leader of the Fellowship of Dwarrowdams Remaining Behind, **Manaddadâna** **Khazdâna Binganugâl Ôra.**[140]

 

* * *

 

 

In the morning, Dís made the announcement that she would be leaving on the 15th of ‘afdush[141], five days before the start of the Yule Feasts, and that those who wished to join the caravan could sign up immediately. The Princess estimated that they would be travelling for at least four turns of the moon, and although Vár had already begun hiring the best trackers and hunters, those going should prepare themselves for living on rations and bringing as much food along as they could carry. Families would be responsible for their own belongings, but those who wished to seek employ as guards should report to Álfífa, Dwalin’s Second-in-command and the Shumrozbid in his absence.

 

 

###### notes:

[137] 18th day of Anvil Moon ~ November 16

[138] Ravens of the Lonely Mountain. Azsâlul’abad is the Khuzdul name for the Lonely Mountain, but those who live there call it ‘Urd, when speaking of the actual Mountain itself and say ‘Urd’ek, when referring to the Halls inside the Mountain. The compound for raven is Friend-Bird, because of the long history of friendship between the two races.

[139] Young carving, nickname

[140] Fellowship(They, females, who continue to accompany) of Dwarrowdams (those that are) Staying Behind. Here there’s an error in Dwarrowscholar’s dictionary, for the GNG radicals are listed as going, with bin-GNG as the verb for to stay/remain(location, not remain as in opposite of change), while ganugâl is listed as those who are stayers, which should be those who are goers.

[141] December 13th


	22. Plans and Gambits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burning a corpse, the end of an era, and futile waiting.

The morning after their first futile attempt to make Thorin Oakenshield see sense, Captain Bronwe sent out most of his scouts. While Elves were capable of incredible patience compared to mortal races, Silvans in general felt better when they were in motion, working towards a clear goal. To that end, he also sent off several groups to act as hunters for the army, as well as a group of twenty elves out to find firewood. The Dragon’s corpse, which had been attempted burned, had obviously not been burned properly, and the Dwarrow had been content to ignore the half-burnt rotting meat that still clung to the charred bones. It was enough to make most people sick, if they stood downwind of it, and Thranduil had demanded that the dragon be seen to immediately. The only way to keep whatever malevolent forces had inhabited the flesh from seeping into the soil and poisoning the desolation for years to come was to burn it properly, and plough the ashes into the land. In a way, it was poetic justice that Smaug’s ashes would be used to renew and revitalise the farmlands he had turned to ashes so many years before, the Captain felt, and he had made it his first priority to ensure that the corpse was reduced to ash as quickly as possible. They had not brought firewood beyond that used for camp- and cook-fires, so the wood-gathering expedition was necessary. Given their reluctance to cut down their beloved trees, the expedition needed to range far, across the desolation and back to Mirkwood itself, most likely, but needs must. With them went Dúmon, his youngest son, while Cúnir was leading one of the hunting groups. Bronwe’s oldest son, Amathanar, who was missing his best friend Magoldir for sparring, had been put in charge of running drills with the Men of Laketown. Prince Legolas wasn’t wrong to point out that many of them had little idea about fighting anything but fish, and indeed most of them were armed with fishing spears and other sundry tools-turned-weapons. In Bronwe’s mind, the drills were mostly a way of keeping the Men busy and out of the way – particularly the Master, who had been given the ‘important’ task of overseeing the exercise; a position of seeming importance, but where he could do no actual harm to either the army or the negotiation process with Thorin Oakenshield.

 

* * *

 

 

Seeing the mountain of dragonflesh go up in flames was immensely satisfying, Legolas thought, though his joy did not seem to be shared by Rhonith, whose face was somehow shadowed as she stood beside Thranduil and watched the great beast consigned to the pyre.

“Its destruction saddens you,” Thranduil said quietly, finding her hand cold to the touch. On his other side, Legolas stiffened.

“Should we not always mourn the destruction of something that could have been magnificent?” she replied, gazing sadly at the flames that leapt higher against the darkening of the night sky. “I have seen the pictures the Sandwalkers of Far Harad draw, heard the legends they tell of the beautiful drakes that once lived in the red deserts… and now I have witnessed the end of their last descendant. Yes, Atheg, I am saddened. But, I am also angry. Angry that this was necessary, angry that this being was twisted so far from Illuvatar’s original plan that his destruction was inevitable. There will never be another dragon in Arda – good or bad – and I think we should all consider ourselves slightly poorer for it.” With that, she spun on her heel and stalked away from the firepit and the corpse within. Legolas stared after her with a slight frown marring the serenity of his face.

 

* * *

 

 

Legolas’ unit had not been assigned scouting duty – he knew Bronwe was trying to be kind given their recent loss, but he wanted the distraction and distance while he sorted out his thoughts – but they volunteered to do patrolling close by the camp when Legolas asked. He knew that Erfaron, who knew him best of all of them, and who sometimes seemed to see more for the fact that he could not speak, probably guessed that he was avoiding _something_ but the hunter did not pry, for which Legolas was grateful. Though he considered all the members of his group friends, none of them held the same position in his heart as Alphel had occupied for over 2500 years, knowing most of his inner thoughts. His current emotional turmoil made him miss her fiercely, the gently mocking tone she would have used to cheer him up a cover for her genuine concern. He hadn’t always appreciated her humour, but Alphel had had a way of making him spill all his secrets even if he hadn’t intended to do so, and Legolas wished he could talk through the thoughts swirling in his mind with her once more. Alphel would have been able to make sense of his head, he knew, but the Alphel in his memory did not help much, even when he tried to imagine what she would say. Possibly she’d simply have dragged him off to the archery runs and competed with him until they were both beyond worn out, quiet the clamour in his head that way. That was not an option, however, and so Legolas sought exhaustion elsewhere, and running patrols around their perimeter was a good use of his energy. Arastor and Tuilinthel had gone out with the hunters, and Thalawen was confined to camp duties even though she had been allowed to come along for a chance at revenge on the Orcs that had killed her hervenn. Legolas had assumed that Erfaron would have gone out with the hunters too, being one of the best trackers they had, but the silent ellon was staying by Curulhénes, which was probably Magoldir’s doing, the Prince thought. Bronwe’s Lieutenant was very protective of his little sister, and as he had been left behind to handle the guard of the Woodland Realm itself, it made sense that he would have asked his gwador to look after her. When the four of them – Faindirn, having joked himself quite far onto the bad side of Alfirin who was leading the scouting teams, had been demoted to camp watch post and jumped at the chance to go out with his usual unit – left camp, the sun had barely kissed the clouds above their heads with the colours of dawn. They did not return until the veil of night had covered the world for hours already, though they had seen no enemies nor anything else noteworthy. The time had not been entirely wasted, however, as it had allowed Legolas to think freely, even if he still did not have any real answers.

 

* * *

 

 

Every morning, Thranduil would ride to the Mountain – the Elven camp was situated a respectful distance away; close enough to be used defensively in case of an attack, but not so close that the King under the Mountain could claim that they were besieging him. Not that this kept Thorin from stating that very claim, loudly and with great vehemence, on the one occasion he deigned to appear after the first disastrous meeting. Thranduil was using all his available patience to stay calm in the face of Thorin’s vitriol, but it was taking its toll on him, even if he only let the façade drop late at night when only Legolas, Rhonith, or Bronwe was there to see. A strong leader was necessary to keep up morale in any fighting force, Oropher had taught his son, and it was a lesson Thranduil heeded well.

 

* * *

 

 

Returning from another morning trip to the Gates of Erebor, where an increasingly harried-looking Balin had once more met him with Thorin’s refusals, Thranduil threw himself angrily into his chair when he entered his tent. Being seen acting so petulantly would never do, of course, but his tent was abandoned by all and sundry. Or… so he thought.

“Frustrated, Atheg?” Rhonith said calmly, from where she had been hidden behind the screen that separated his own bed from the main room of the tent. She splashed slightly. From the main room of the tent came Thranduil’s heartfelt sigh.

“I envy your calm, sellig. I don’t think I could relax enough to enjoy a bath at the moment.” He scowled at the cloth ceiling. Her light laughter rang through the space.

“I am taking a bath in an attempt to relax and let go of my anger, though I am afraid it is proving rather ineffectual.” Sinking deeper into the tub – the Elvenking always travelled in style, and Galion had ensured that many amenities, such as bath sponges and indeed the tub itself – had been brought along. The calming scent of lavender oil infused the air around her, but it did little to soothe her temper.

“Sometimes, I wish you had never met the Company, Sellig,” Thranduil said wryly, pouring a glass of wine. His arm appeared around the screen, offering her a second goblet, which Rhonith accepted eagerly, uncaring that it was not even noon yet. She sighed, sipping the smooth drink slowly. “If you had never met them, you would be safely in Imladris by now, and one of our patrols would have come across Oakenshield in the depths of Mirkwood, most likely stumbling around aimlessly.” Thranduil continued his thought experiment. “Then, he would probably have attacked my people, or – at the very least – been rude and combative, and I would have had no compunctions whatsoever about tossing him and his Company into the dungeons.”

“And what would you have done with the Dwarrow in your dungeons?” Rhonith laughed, but with the way things stood, perhaps Thorin would have been better off being a guest of Mirkwood indefinitely.

“Well, kept their leader from going mad with the influence of a dead dragon, obviously!” Thranduil said, exasperated. “No, I suppose I’d have kept them only until Mithrandir arrived, and then that troublemaker would have either freed them or convinced me to let them go,” he sighed. “To think that the son of our Lothig would hate us as much as the King under the Mountain currently claims he does… it is staggering.”

“I do not wish to think on it, myself. That is not my sister’s child, Atheg. _That_ is a stranger who has stolen his face. Speaking of children of my sister, do you know what is wrong with Legolas?” The fact that she found it necessary to ask the question stung, but not as much as watching him almost run in the opposite direction whenever he caught a glimpse of her.

“Wrong with Legolas?” The frown was evident in his voice, and Rhonith smiled gently. Even when he was distracted with a daydream of an imprisoned Thorin being the target of _his_ ire, rather than the other way around, the Elvenking cared about his children.

“He is avoiding me, and I cannot figure out why,” she clarified. “I have not spoken to him since he followed me to the river on the day of our arrival.”

“I haven’t noticed anything troubling my son, Rhonith, aside from the worry that seems to be haunting all of us… I will keep an eye on him.” Rhonith sighed at that, but Thranduil did not say anything else on the topic.

“Well, if you see him, would you ask him to speak to me? I want to apologise for whatever it is I’ve done to offend him so.” Giving up her bathing exercise as futile when she was so wound up from worry and stress, Rhonith got to her feet and climbed out of the slightly-too-tall tub. Slipping a robe over her shoulders and wrapping a towel around her hair, she grabbed her unfinished wine and went to join the Elvenking for a midday snack.

* * *

“Master Baggins, come here!” Thorin called loudly. Bilbo startled, but came up, seeing Thorin holding up a tunic of whiteish mail. It was too small and short for a Dwarf, but it would be just right for the slimmer shape of a Hobbit after months of travel rations. “You are quick on your feet, Master Baggins, but you are vulnerable. If we are to go to war, you need more protection than that little letter opener can provide. Put it on.” Bilbo began removing his jacket, looking at Thorin doubtfully. The idea of armour was not something he had contemplated before, and it was far from his Hobbit-mind to think of any need for metal protection. “This vest is made of silver steel - _“Mithril”_ it was called by the Elves. In Khuzdul it is called sanzigil, true silver. It was the most prized metal mined in Khazad-dûm.” He held up the shirt, measuring it against Bilbo for size. With a nod, he held it towards the hobbit, letting Bilbo slide it over his head. “No blade can pierce it, but it is light and supple as cloth.” Bilbo finished settling the metal shirt over his chest, Thorin and the rest of the Company watched. The Dwarrow all knew that Bilbo did not understand the value of what he had been given, but he had earned it. Finding the Keyhole was no mean feat, and there was his heroic defence of Thorin to consider, not to mention his role in riddling with the dragon. Bilbo looked down at himself. He smiled wryly, looking up and catching Bofur’s eye. The miner’s grin did not falter and Bilbo shrugged helplessly.

“I look absurd. I’m not a warrior; I’m a Hobbit.” He said, beginning to pull the mithril mail over his head. Thorin’s large hands stopped him, settling on the Hobbit’s slim shoulders.

“It is a gift. A token of our friendship. True friends are hard to come by.” Thorin smiled fondly at the short Burglar, but then he shot a twitchy gaze towards the rest of the Company and dragged Bilbo off by the shoulder. When the two had reached another hallway, well out of earshot, Thorin began pacing agitatedly. Bilbo watched him with a mounting sense of worry making his guts swirl. “I have been blind.” Thorin began, sounding far away, “Now I begin to see. I am betrayed!” His fit hit the wall hard.

“Betrayed?” Bilbo asked, his unease growing rapidly. Why was Thorin telling _him_ this, rather than Balin or Dwalin? Whatever the reason, it did not bode well, the Hobbit thought.

“The Arkenstone.” Thorin explained, blue eyes burning even in the dim light of the hallway. He moved with an oddly serpentine grace towards the small hobbit. Bilbo looked uncomfortable, but Thorin did not seem to notice. “One of them has taken it.” He hissed into Bilbo’s ear. The Hobbit could not hold back his sigh of relief, even as he pressed himself against the stonewall. “One of them is false.” Thorin whispered.

“Thorin...the quest is fulfilled.” Bilbo tried to defuse Thorin’s anger, “You did it, and no one will deny it. You’ve won the mountain. Is that not enough? Your people can return to their home. You are King without the stone.”

“Betrayed by my own kin.” Thorin hissed, eyes flashing.

“No, eh...You...You made a promise...to Thranduil and the people of Laketown. You swore to share this wealth, to make the North prosperous again. Is-Is this treasure truly worth more than your honour? _Our_ honour, Thorin. We were all there, too.” Bilbo tried to marshal his thoughts in a way that would appeal to Thorin’s stubborn pride. If Bilbo had realized anything about his Dwarrow companions, it was that their honour and their sworn words mattered more than gold… or at least it had.

“For that I’m grateful. It was nobly done. But the treasure in this mountain does not belong to the _people of Laketown or_ _the treacherous Elvenking Thranduil_! This gold...is ours...and ours alone. By my life, I will not part with a single coin! Not...one...piece of it!” As Thorin spoke, his voice grew steadily deeper until it reached an almost Smaug-like timbre. The last line, which was exactly a repeat of what Smaug had previously said to Bilbo, truly scared him. In the Hobbit’s mind, it was incontrovertible proof that Thorin was mentally affected by the dragon’s curse, and Bilbo could only stare at him in shock as the other dwarves, dressed in new armour, strode by the other end of the hallway.

* * *

 

“You’ve been avoiding me, Legolas.” At the words, the Elven Prince stiffened. The accusation was not unjustified; he _had_ been avoiding her for days. He leaned against the crumbling watchtower on the wall of Dale where she had at last tracked him down, out of sight of the army, though not so far away as to be considered reckless. He sighed. As he turned, however, she surprised him. “I’m sorry, Glasseg,” she said, putting her hand on his forearm like she so often did, and he was shocked to see her eyes shine with the beginnings of tears. “I did not mean to hurt you by speaking of the Queen’s departure,” she continued sadly, and he almost wanted to laugh that she had thought him upset by the reminder of his naneth’s absence.

“No,” he sighed, squeezing her hand where it rested on his arm, interrupting her unnecessary apology. “I’m the one who apologises.”

“I forgive you for running away from me for four days,” she smiled, but her eyes remained sad and he shook his head slowly.

“No, though I apologise for that too. I’m sorry she made you stay on these shores if you would rather have left with her. I’m sorry that she bound you here – with us – while you long to be West of the Sea.” He had never spoken words more difficult, he thought, not even saying his final goodbye to Alphel, but when they left his lips the words seemed to lift a weight from his shoulders he had not known he was carrying. Her laughter shocked him, but not as much as the gentle kiss she pressed against his brow, standing on tiptoes to reach.

“Oh, Legolas, don’t you see?” her blue eyes were lightened again, with the happiness and joy he had always loved seeing, ever since the first time he had met her as a small elfling. “Gwathel-nîn knew that I would never have been happy going with her. Avornien went, but she had no true family here, and none she would miss as much as I would miss you and my mother’s kin. She made me swear to stay, not for your sake, nor for Thranduil’s, not entirely. She did that for me; she did it so I would feel less guilty for leaving her to sail alone. She knew me – better than I knew myself at times – and she knew that if I had gone, I would have forever longed to return, until the despair of it killed me. This,” she gestured to the ground beneath them, the land around them, “this is my home; this is where I was born, and this is where I will end, I believe.” Her smile dimmed slightly, but Legolas could not scrub his horrified expression quickly enough to keep it on her face.

“You’re not going to die.” He wouldn’t let her. The vehement statement brought her laughter back to life once more, and earned him the squeeze of her fingers around his.

“I have no intention of dying just yet, Glasseg,” she smiled warmly, and for a moment he almost believed it. Then his old dreams swarmed back into his mind, once more picturing all the myriad ways she might lose her life during one of her adventures. She had turned away from him once more, however, and did not catch the dark grimace that twisted his face for a second. Jumping lithely down from the wall, she beckoned him to follow. It was almost time for evening meal , he knew, and, in a single graceful leap, he departed his watch post to walk beside her back towards the camp.

 

* * *

 

 

Nori felt doom approaching. He could see it in Dori’s eyes; his sister knew it too. It was only a matter of time before Thorin openly declared one of them a traitor; a thief of the Arkenstone, and odds were on Nori as the most likely culprit. No matter how long he had served as the Black Owl, Nori was a known thief, and Thorin would never believe him innocent, even if the Stone was not found among his possessions. Dori had, in a fit of fear, tried to make him run, but Nori knew that there was nowhere to run. If he left, Thorin would see it as an admission of guilt, and at the very least, Nori would be hunted down. He shuddered at the thought of what this mad version of his otherwise decent King would do to Dori and Ori, if Nori were to escape. He had told Dori that escaping the Lonely Mountain would be easy, and it would be, but if he _did_ , how long before Thorin cast his eyes on someone else? How long before Nori’s siblings were thought to be traitors too? He had watched the realisation happen in Dori’s eyes, and the tight hug she gave him afterwards spoke clearly. There was nothing they could do but wait and watch events unfold, the pieces had already been tossed, and only time would reveal how they were scattered. Nori had never taken much stock in the tossing of runes to divine the future, but he would have given almost anything to know that there was light ahead of them, that this darkness that had seeped into their midst could be chased away by the brightness of new hope. Beyond that, however, Nori was a practical Dwarf, and though he had given up being anywhere near the Treasury for fear of Thorin’s violent temper – Nori was a great believer in out of sight, out of mind, even if it didn’t always work – and spent a lot of his time roaming the empty halls of Erebor, or sitting on the ramparts, smoking. Watching the Elven camp was dull in the extreme, but watching the Desolation was even worse. Dori had showed him the place where their house had once stood – their parents’ house at any rate – and Nori had spent some time digging through the rubble left behind by the destruction of the Lower Commons

 

* * *

Bilbo found Nori on the ramparts, watching the Elves scurrying about their camp. He did not know much military strategy, but even the hobbit could tell that they had been ordered into defensible camps, surrounded by hastily built watchtowers. Each section of the main camp had been fenced by long mounds of dirt, topped by sharpened branches. His heart was tearing itself in two trying to keep the secret of the Arkenstone’s location. After the arrival of the Elves, Thorin’s manic frenzy in the Treasury had only increased. He watched the other Dwarrow like a hawk as they combed through the gold. Bilbo saw the looks of exhaustion and fear on his friends’ faces, but none of them dared speak against Thorin. Even Nori, who had never had a problem with defying authority, kept silent.

“Will Thranduil attack us?” Bilbo asked quietly. Nori chuckled low in his throat and shook his head.

“If Thorin pisses him off too far, he might besiege the Mountain, I guess,” Nori snorted, “But look at the way the defences are built.” He pointed towards the busy camp. The Elves were running drills with the Men. Bilbo didn’t know what he was supposed to be seeing, but he trusted Nori’s interpretation. “Thranduil is expecting an attack, but not from us. He defences are faced west and north, which tells me that his warning about Orcs coming from Dol Guldur is true. If he expected to go to war with Dwarrow, he would put his defences differently. Expecting us to receive reinforcements from Dáin, he would guard his East flank. If Thorin would bother to look, he would see that Thranduil’s actions support his story. I know that Dwalin and Balin have both seen what I see,” he sighed, “Even the princes can see it. We are running out of hope here. We cannot hold the mountain indefinitely without aid, and when the Orcs come, we will eventually fall without the Elves’ protection.”

“Thorin will come around.” Bilbo did not even believe his own words, and Nori’s crooked smile showed that he was equally unconvinced of the possibility. Instead of replying, he pulled out his pipe and began stuffing it silently. The smoke curled through the cool morning air. Bilbo sighed, pulling out his own pipe and stuffing it solemnly.

“I miss Old Toby,” he sighed, watching his exhaled puffs mingle with Nori’s and letting the taste of the Lakemen’s pipe-weed fill his lungs. The two shared a comfortable silence, as the sun climbed higher into the sky.

“If I wanted to travel West this time of year, I’d go south, find a caravan, probably going through the Gap of Rohan.” Nori began, when his pipe was almost finished, “maybe winter in Rivendell, Lord Elrond seemed fond of your kind.” He stood, squeezing Bilbo’s shoulder before he turned to leave. “Just something to think about, Master Baggins.” With a whistle, the Thief left the Burglar alone, juggling a knife as he walked down the stairs. Bilbo kept staring towards the blackened ruins of Dale.

* * *

That night, under the cover of the clouds that had rolled in to block out the moon and stars, a small figure crept onto the ramparts. Throwing a rope over the edge, securing it in a convenient crevice with a grappling hook he had found in an old armoury, the small shadow quickly climbed down the grey mountainside. The landscape seemed intent on tripping his large feet, the ground littered with hollows and treacherous branches. Here and there, pockets of ice made the journey more dangerous and forced him to move slowly.

* * *

Rhonith was sleeping on the cot pushed against the wall of the tent; she had given up the meeting as futile more than an hour before. Legolas sat at the table, sipping Dorwinion as the generals talked endless circles, rehashing the same strategies over and over. He envied the sleeping elleth. Rhonith was not formally part of the command structure – like he was – and she had the luxury of bowing out of the tedious repetitiveness. There were only so many plans they could make with the little information they had. No scouts had found the Orc armies, and without Thorin’s permission, Thranduil would not post archers on the Mountain’s ridges. He remembered some of the defences the paranoid King Thrór had built in his adamant desire to protect his treasure and had no desire to trip them inadvertently. Without Thorin’s permission, they could not see Thrór’s schematics, and so they were forced to make plans to defend the valley before the Front Gates without the tactical advantage of higher ground.

“My Lord, we’ve caught an intruder.” Bronwe stuck his head through the opening of Thranduil’s command tent, interrupting another frustrating strategy session. The Elvenking raised his head from where it had been resting in his hand.

“An envoy from the Mountain? I did not think Thorin would change his mind.” Thranduil said quietly. With a wave, he dismissed the other commanders – who looked as bored as his son – to their rest.

“He won’t.” A new voice said from the doorway, as the Elven commanders filed past. “Thorin will not change his mind, and the Dwarrow will fight to the death for the people they love. They will stand by their King.”

“Little One…” Thranduil mused, staring at the exhausted-looking hobbit, whose cheerful face had been marred by unsightly lines of worry and fear since they had last seen him. Even in the brief glimpses of the Company they had caught on their first day at the Gates, Master Baggins had not looked this haggard. “And why are you here? Do you have a message for me?” A glance at Captain Bronwe conveyed his orders, and the Captain of the Guard immediately left to find something for the hobbit to eat. Steepling his fingers under his chin, Thranduil turned his gaze upon Bilbo, who fidgeted slightly. Thranduil frowned. Gandalf’s hand landed on Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Bilbo Baggins!” The wizard exclaimed. “I am exceedingly happy to see you, my friend.” The Hobbit visibly steeled himself before replying shakily.

“I have no message. They don’t know I’m gone. I came to,” he gulped, but continued quietly, “I came to give you this.” Bilbo reached into his pocket and pulled out a cloth-wrapped parcel. He placed it on the desk, accidentally covering the Lonely Mountain on the map beneath it. With a slight flourish, he uncovered it.

“The Arkenstone…” Thranduil breathed. “The Heart of the Mountain. The King’s Jewel. I remember when it was found.” Legolas’ elbow brought Rhonith’s consciousness back to the tent, and her eyes blinked as they focused on the shining white gem. The light seemed to come from deep within the stone, shining with the brilliance of stars.

“Why do you have it, Bilbo Baggins?” she whispered. None of the Elves took their eyes off the Arkenstone. Rhonith looked undecided, almost scared, Legolas intrigued and a covetous but wary look crossed Thranduil’s face. Rhonith had taken an unconscious step towards the table when she rose from her cot, her hand reaching towards the soft light of the gem on the table, but suddenly a repulsed grimace contorted her features. “ _Lhoima-lóth[142]!_ ” she spat, with her father’s favourite curse falling from her lips. “It feels… wrong. Something… something is wrong.” The peredhel shuddered, stumbling away from the table. Her fingers slid slowly down the uncovered blade at her hips, and her eyes were unwilling to meet the brilliance of the Arkenstone. Instead, she watched the faces of the other four people in the tent. Bilbo looked scared. Mithrandir simply twinkled at her, a secretive smile on his face, as though he knew more than he let on – he usually affected that air, even if he didn’t, however, so no one took notice. Legolas was ignoring the stone in favour of watching her with a worried gaze, a look he shared with Thranduil. Bard, who had kept silent in a corner, wanting a word with the Elvenking after the rest of the commanders had left, moved in for a closer look, though he kept his distance after Rhonith’s obvious fear.

“Ci vêr, sellig? Does it feel…” But Thranduil changed his mind about what question he wanted answered and instead said simply, “I doubt this is yours to give, Master Baggins.”

“I took it as my fourteenth share of the treasure.” Bilbo said, clasping his hands behind his back. He was feeling even more uneasy with the stone uncovered than he had smuggling it out under Thorin’s nose. Gandalf smiled slightly, but Bard seemed to share in Bilbo and Rhonith’s unease.

“Why would you do this? You owe us no loyalty.” Bard asked, turning to face the small Hobbit. He had learned his lesson about thinking before he spoke, but the question had to be asked. He had trusted the Company before, but in Bard’s mind Thorin’s behaviour had eroded most of the goodwill the Dwarrow had earned during their stay in Laketown.

“I’m not doing it for you. I know that dwarves can be obstinate and pig-headed and difficult, suspicious and secretive…with the worst manners you can possibly imagine, but they also brave and kind...and loyal to a fault. I’ve grown very fond of them, and I would save them if I can.” Bilbo sighed, but continued valiantly, “Thorin values this stone above all else. In exchange for its return, I believe he will give you what you are owed. There will be no need for war!”

Gandalf, Bard, and Thranduil looked at each other. Rhonith frowned and Legolas scowled. None of them wanted to go to war _against_ the Dwarrow, but if Thorin believed they would, as it seemed, perhaps they could use the Stone to force his hand? Thranduil smiled. This, _this_ was the leverage they had lacked.

* * *

Gandalf lead Bilbo, nibbling on one of Maeassel’s currant buns, through the encampment, away from the Command tent where they had left the Elvenking with Bard, Rhonith, and Legolas. “Rest up tonight. You must leave tomorrow.” The wizard said, walking quickly through the dark camp. Here and there, the night’s veil was pierced by smaller campfires, but with the lack of the moon’s light to guide their feet, Bilbo stumbled more than once.

“What?” Bilbo exclaimed, not understanding the wizard’s words.

“Get as far away from here as possible.” Gandalf said.

“I’m-I’m not leaving. You picked me as the fourteenth man. I’m not about to leave the Company now.” Bilbo said, shooting an affronted look at the old wizard. Gandalf huffed out a heavy sigh.

“There _is_ no Company - not anymore,” he muttered. The wizard raised his voice, looking back at Bilbo seriously. “And I don’t like to think what Thorin will do when he finds out what you’ve done.”

“I’m not afraid of Thorin.” Bilbo claimed, even though his imagination supplied several instances of Thorin acting in ways that he would never have expected before reaching Erebor, and which had scared him even more than he was willing to admit.

“But you should be!” Gandalf cried. “Don’t underestimate the evil of gold. Gold over which a serpent has long brooded. Dragon-sickness seeps into the hearts of all who come near this mountain. I know Ilsamirë told you that, and you saw how she reacted to the Arkenstone tonight.” He shot an appraising look at the hobbit. “Almost all.” Spotting Alfrid walking by, Gandalf called to him. “You there! Find this Hobbit a bed, and fill his belly with hot food. He has earned it.” Alfrid sneered at what he perceived as an old man, shabbily clad even though he kept company with the unnatural leader of the Elves, who always dressed in finery, effortlessly outshining Alfrid’s own Master with his elegance. The old man seemed important, however, and Alfrid had always known how crucial it was to please those who outranked him. Begrudgingly, he came over, motioning for Bilbo to follow. “Hey.” Gandalf whispered, grabbing the Man’s arm. “Keep an eye on him. If he should try to leave, you will tell me.”

Alfrid walked off, cursing as a group of people walk in front of him and pushed his way between them. “Move it! Stupid...” Bilbo followed the grumbling man silently, mind whirling.

###### notes:

[142] Poison-flower! (Quenya)


	23. Revelations and New Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations and a new player entering the stage.

The Orc who rode a grey warg finally reached open air. Behind him, a long tunnel snaked its way through the earth, the opening dark as pitch in the light of the rising sun. Before him stood his general; a large pale Orc with a missing limb. Azog was feeding his white warg, letting her snap after the big chunks of meat and play tug-o-war with him. The great jaws bit down hard on the bloody haunch.

“Our army will be in position by dawn. The attack will be sudden and swift!”

“We will crush the fools! They have forgotten what lives beneath these lands...” Azog smiled in grim satisfaction. “They have forgotten the great Earth-eaters.”

The pale Orc jumped onto the back of his great white warg, who snarled at the smaller warg of his lieutenant. The two orcs rode away, the wargs loping swiftly towards great holes in the earth. The massive tunnels rung with the sounds of crushed and moved earth. Each tunnel snaked its way towards the distant mountain peak.

* * *

Alfrid walked into the tent where he had stashed the wizard’s little pet, carrying a bowl of food. “Wakey, wakey, Hobbit. Up you...get?” Alfrid paused as he realized that the room was empty. With a shrug, he began eating the food meant for the Hobbit.  _Waste not, want not_ , he thought. He didn’t care enough to go find the wizard immediately, why let the oatmeal get cold?

* * *

Thranduil and Bard rode together to the front of the armies and approached their side of the broken bridge over the outlet of the River Running. Behind them rode Rhonith and Legolas. Mithrandir – who had only been informed of Master Baggins’ absence moments before they left camp – was busy looking for thr errant Hobbit, though Rhonith had a pretty good idea about where Master Baggins had gone. From above the blockade, Thorin drew a bow and shot an arrow at the ground directly in front of Thranduil and Bard, who immediately halted in surprise. 

“I will put the next one between your eyes!” Thorin shouted. He drew the bow once more and the dwarrow on the ramparts cheered as they shook their weapons towards the Elven army. Behind Thranduil, Rhonith glared at the Son of Durin on the battlements. The group dismounted in silence. Thranduil stared at Thorin angrily, and then tilted his head slightly. Instantly, several rows of Elves near the front of the army pulled out their bows, nocked their arrows, and aimed at the dwarrow, all in one fluid motion. The dwarrow’s cheering cut off abruptly as all of them but Thorin ducked behind the ramparts. After holding the pose for a few seconds, Thranduil raised his hand, and the elves easily put away their arrows. Thorin still had his bow drawn, however, and sneered down at the Elvenking. “Now we see your true agenda, Thranduil. You are here to attack us and win the treasure for yourself!” the Dwarf-King yelled. 

“We’ve come to tell you: payment for your defence has been offered...and accepted.” Thranduil smirked. It was not his plan to keep the Stone, but he _would_ use possession of it to bargain better positioning for his forces if possible.

“Our defence?” Thorin scoffed, but then the other half of the Elvenking’s statement registered. “What payment? I gave you nothing! You have nothing!” Bilbo shot him a worried look that the King did not see. Balin stiffened imperceptibly, but only Dwalin noticed when his older brother suddenly squeezed his hand hard enough to cut off blood supply to his fingers. A sense of dread filled the warrior.

“We have this.” Bard said calmly. The Master had not been told of the Arkenstone’s presence, in an attempt to contain the knowledge of their gambit to the small circle of Thranduil’s most trusted commanders. The Master might easily be tempted to steal such a valuable artefact and the loss would be devastating to diplomatic relations between the three peoples. Bard reached into his robe and pulled out the Arkenstone, holding it above his head. They had decided that Thorin would be less enraged if Bard held the Stone, having little trust in the Elvenking even after all the help Thranduil had given them. Thorin, shocked, lowered his bow.

“They have the Arkenstone? Thieves! How came you by the heirloom of our house? That stone belongs to the king!” Kíli cried, even as his eyes feasted upon the sight of the Arkenstone glimmering in the sunshine.

“And the king may have it - with our good will.” Thranduil replied as Bard put the Arkenstone back into his tunic. “But first he must honour his word and discuss the terms for the future with us.”

Thorin whispered to himself, but the dwarves near him could hear. “They are taking us for fools. This is a ruse, a filthy lie.” Far below the Company, Legolas sighed, shaking his head. Thorin’s voice carried to sensitive elven ears easily. He did not know how Thorin could believe they had faked the Arkenstone… it was impossible! It had not felt dangerous to him, when Bilbo revealed it the night before, but he trusted Rhonith’s word that it was _wrong_ , even if she could not explain why.

“He thinks the Stone is a fake,” the prince grimaced. Beside him, Rhonith silently wrapped her slim fingers around his forearm, giving it a comforting squeeze.

Balin looked shocked that Thorin’s mental state had deteriorated to the point at which he would even consider that explanation. He took an involuntary step back, finding his brother’s strong hand once more. Dwalin’s fingers were trembling against his own as the big Dwarf listened to his Kurdel yell out:

“THE ARKENSTONE IS IN THIS MOUNTAIN! IT IS A TRICK!”

At the top of the battlements, Bilbo stepped forward. Dwalin’s fingers turned into a vice around Balin’s, and his free hand landed heavily on Kíli’s shoulder, holding back the archer as he tried to bring the small hobbit back beside him.

“It-It’s no trick.” The Hobbit stammered, but his voice carried to those below. “The stone is real. I gave it to them.” Thranduil and Bard exchanged a worried glance, as they had thought Bilbo was still safely in camp.

* * *

 

 

As Bilbo spoke, Thorin’s expression changed to a mixture of sorrow and anger. Thorin and the other Dwarrow looked at Bilbo in shock.

“You…” Betrayal and hurt shone from Thorin’s blue eyes. The Company stared in stunned silence.

“I took it as my fourteenth share.”

“You would steal from me?” Thorin asked, stunned beyond belief. Did Bilbo know what he had done?

“Steal from you? No. No. I may be a burglar, but I like to think I’m an honest one. I’m willing to let it stand against my claim.” Bilbo said, not realising the simmering anger in his friends, entirely focused on the hurt in Thorin’s eyes.

“Against your claim?! Your claim! You have no claim over me, you miserable rat!” Thorin shouted, throwing down his bow in anger as he began walking toward Bilbo.

“I was going to give it to you. Many times, I wanted to, but...” Bilbo bit his lip, hesitating in uttering the most damning words.

“But what, thief?!” Thorin’s anger broke through in his voice, overriding the hurt he felt. In his head rung the voice of his grandfather ‘ _The Arkenstone is the legacy of our line, the symbol of our right to rule!_ ’

“You are changed, Thorin! The dwarf I met in Bag End would never have mistrusted his ally’s warnings, never have gone back on his word! Would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin!”

“Do not speak to me...” Thorin paused, “of loyalty!” Turning to the other Dwarrow, the King’s judgement was swift. “Throw him from the ramparts!” Bilbo looked shocked. He had not expected Thorin to react fondly towards him, but capital punishment was so far from the Dwarf he had come to know as to be unthinkable. A race of warriors, Dwarrow still did not generally execute even the foulest criminals, instead preferring shaving and exile for their highest punishments. The other dwarrow, rather than obeying Thorin, stepped away from Bilbo in confusion. The Elves shared a concerned look. Thorin seemed surprised that no one obeyed him. “DO YOU HEAR ME?!” 

“No!” Fíli cried, jumping towards Thorin with Glóin and Bifur who were closest, shouting, and pulling at his uncle’s clothes.

“I will do it myself!” the King yelled and lunged forward, grabbing Bilbo and shouting loudly. “CURSE YOU!” Holding the Hobbit by the throat, he began pushing him over the ramparts. Bilbo choked, scrabbling to pry Thorin’s hands off his neck in a way that would not end in him plummeting swiftly to his death. “Cursed be the Wizard that forced you on this Company!” Thorin shouted, tears tickling the back of his eyes. Even through the haze of the gold-sickness, he could see his own hands wrap themselves around Bilbo’s slim throat with horror, but he could only watch as he dangled the small creature above the sheer drop. The Elves below were looking on horror-stricken. Rhonith turned her face into Legolas’ chest with a small cry of anguish.

 

* * *

 

Suddenly, Gandalf stepped forwards, striding through the armies. His voice was magically amplified to incredibly loud, deep, and powerful tones.

“IF YOU DON’T LIKE MY BURGLAR…” he began, voice lowering when he was certain the Dwarf-King’s full attention was on him. It broke his heart to see Thorin so far in the grip of madness, but he could do little from afar. “Then please don’t damage him. Return him to me! You’re not making a very splendid figure as King Under the Mountain, are you, Thorin son of Thraín!”

Thorin slowly pulled the Hobbit back over the edge and let Bilbo go. Some of the other dwarrow rushed up to help the Burglar up. Dwalin and Balin stepped in, blocking Thorin’s view of the Hobbit.

“Never again will I have dealings with wizards...” he said quietly, turning to face Gandalf once more. Bofur gently pushed Bilbo toward the rope he’d hung the night before to climb down the walls.

“Go.” He said quietly, a dimmed version of Thorin’s pain in his eyes, warring with his fondness for his little friend.

“-Or Shire-rats!” Thorin spat towards the wizard. Bilbo threw his coiled rope over the wall and clambered down. Thorin threw the rope after him when the Hobbit had reached the ground.

* * *

From the East came the sound of a massive horn. The Dwarrow on the ramparts, as well as the Elves by the Front Gates startled.

“Good morning! How are we all? Oy! Pointy-ears! I have a wee proposition for ye! This is our Mountain! Perhaps you’d be so kind as to just bloody bugger off!?” the shout was the first sign of Dáin’s brusque personality as the Dwarf Lord came into view. As one, the Elven army turned, facing the belligerent dwarrow coming over the ridge. Their red-haired leader rode in front, followed by a contingent of Riders mounted on the massive rams native to the Iron Hills. Behind them came rank upon rank of heavily armoured dwarrow, ready for war.

Thranduil, angry and worried, forced his great elk through the ranks until he stood facing the fiery redhead.

 

* * *

 

“Ironfoot.” Gandalf said. Bilbo had finally reached the Wizard’s side and was staring wide-eyed at the newly arrived army. The Erebor dwarrow began cheering and shouting gleefully as they see their kinsmen arriving.

“Who is that? He doesn’t look very happy.” Bilbo mumbled, tugging on Gandalf’s robes.

“Thorin’s cousin Dáin, Lord of the Iron Hills.” The wizard sighed, “The Dwarrow of the Iron Hills are a force to be reckoned with, and none more so than their leader.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it?” Bilbo felt a stab of relief at the thought of more capable fighters joining their side. If these dwarrow were anything like the Company, they would be great warriors indeed. The little hobbit had never before felt interest in battle or warfare, but he had learned some things about dwarrow during their travels.

“Of the two, I’ve always found Thorin the more reasonable,” the wizard sighed, turning his attention back to the Dwarf-Lord.

* * *

 

“Perhaps, Lord Dwarf, you may be able to persuade your cousin that we are not here to rob him.” Thranduil said, but Dáin did not listen.

“Pah! Why else would you be here?” he snarled. “You wish nothing but ill upon my people! If you choose to stand between me and my kin - I’ll split your pretty head open! See if you’re still smirking then! We know your kind, Thranduil. **Mukhas-takhrabmî zars-tamanâl**.” Dáin spat. Thranduil’s face remained impassive, but the insulting tone was unmistakable, even if Bilbo did not understand all the words. “ **Îsh kakhfê ai-‘d-dûr-rugnul!**[143]” Dáin bellowed, to great cheers from the army behind him. Thranduil did not react, but his eyes were cold as he looked down upon the Dwarf-Lord.

“He’s clearly mad, like his cousin!” the Elvenking scowled. Behind him, Rhonith was pushing her way through the Elven ranks.

“You hear that, lads?!” Dáin shouted. “Come on! Let’s give these bastards a good hammering!” Behind him, his army cheered loudly.

Fiery anger sparked in her sapphire eyes, hardening her gaze. The Elves wisely moved out of her way, even as their commander tried to hold her back. With a growl, she threw off Legolas’ restraining arm, pushing her way past Thranduil’s elk and the first line of archers. Stepping out from the sheltering forces of Mirkwood, the short elleth stood between the two advancing armies.

“ **Uzbad Dáin Zirinbasn Zirinhanâdu**!” she shouted clearly. “ **Zâglibi d’zu![144]** ”

“What trickery is this! How dare you speak our ancient tongue!” Dáin bellowed angrily, raising his great warhammer.

“ **E Usakh makartûna Mahal!** ” she replied. The Dwarf shook his massive warhammer threateningly at her, while behind him the Dwarven army moved restlessly.

Dáin nodded tightly. Though his temper was famous throughout the Dwarven Realms, he had not become so successful by letting it run away with him before he had all the information he desired. Holding out a hand, he stopped his army from advancing as he rode his ram towards the elf who dared speak the Maker’s words. His anger boiled in his blood. Behind Rhonith, Thranduil rode forwards, trying to bring her back behind the Elven lines. Rhonith shook off his arm, keeping her gaze fastened on the belligerent Dwarf-Lord who was riding full-speed at her. The ram jumped lithely off a small rock, landing with a spray of gravel before her. Rhonith smiled.

“What is going on!” Dáin said. “Who the feck are you, fundul. An elf pretending to be a Dwarf.” He sneered. “ **Me asnân tada Mahal duhû kansu tah **[145]****.”

“Truly, Lord Dáin, you have trained this one perfectly. She is **Ubnazul**[146]?” Rhonith reached out fearlessly, patting the War-ram’s steaming nose. Dáin gaped. Even his own Dwarrow were usually at least a little cowed by the massive beast he rode. Among the archers, Legolas pulled back on his bow, aiming for the beast. If it dared attack, it would die. Around him, the Elven archers drew back their bows, ready to follow his orders. “ **E nadanu Mahal**[147].” She turned hard sapphire eyes on Dáin, who gulped at the fire he saw there. “I am Geira Celebriel Ilsamirë Rhonith, the immortal daughter of Narví the Stone-carver, of the line of Durin and Celebrimbor the Elvensmith of the House of Fëanor…I hold the title of Usakh, and it has been my sacred duty to watch over and guide Naddun Mahal for more than an Age. Will you listen to me, cousin?” All at once, he was convinced that she was exactly who she claimed to be, which made her his cousin and kin. “I am Ilsamirë Celebriel Geira Rhonith. I hold the title of Usakh, and it has been my sacred duty to watch over and guide Naddun Mahal for more than an Age.”

“ **Shamukh, ra galikh ai-mâ, iraknana’. Razammi astî**[148].” Dáin said wonderingly, as he stared down at the girl who so fearlessly petted his battle-ram. Scowling slightly at the beast who was acting as placidly as a nannygoat, he studied her face. Pretty, in the Elven way which had always seemed rather too pointy for his own tastes, but there were traces of true Dwarven beauty in her features too. Holding out his hand, the Dwarf-Lord waited patiently until Rhonith had taken it before swinging her up on the back of his ram and riding swiftly back towards his army.

“RHONITH! _Nandolo_[149]!” Legolas screamed, but his father’s harsh command stayed the arrow that would have flown after the speedy mount. Rhonith did not respond.

* * *

 

When Dáin was back in front of his people, he dismounted easily, offering his hand once more to the elleth, who smiled and accepted the curtesy. When she had both feet on the ground, Dáin once more turned to face his men. “Right, lads! This here’s me new elf-cousin!” a great cheer greeted the announcement, although mostof the Dwarrow looked confused. “Now. She’s going to tell us what the pointy-ears are doing here, and what has happened to my cousins in the Mountain.”

“Azog has been hunting Thorin since the Company left Ered Luin. His armies are almost upon us, and Thorin will not leave the mountain or let us position proper defences upon the mountainside. He does not believe Thârkun when he tells him what he has seen in Dol Guldur. The Ancient Enemy is awakened once more, his armies are coming. If Erebor falls, the Kingdom of Angmar will rise again.” Rhonith waved towards the Elves. “I brokered an alliance for Thorin with King Thranduil and King Bard of Dale, and we are here to safeguard the mountain, but Thorin will not speak to us. I fear he is lost to the madness that claimed Thrór, for the Treasury was not cleaned of the Dragon’s taint before the Company entered.”

“ **Kalfêl ai-rukhs! **[150]**”** Dáin uttered harshly, but his belligerence was slowly giving way to belief. The elleth in front of him spoke with earnest words, and he could feel himself beginning to trust her. “So, what do we need to do, Lady of Durin?” he shot a glance back towards the elves, who were glaring daggers at him, and whose arrows were all pointed in his direction. “Yon Elves don’t look mighty friendly to me,” he scoffed. “How do I know they won’t attack us?”

“Try to speak to your cousin? My Lord, King Thranduil and the future King Bard would be willing to speak to you… even if you did just kidnap Thranduil’s adopted daughter,” she winked. Dáin loosed a bellowing laugh and those close enough to hear the last sentence joined him. “You’re not in danger.”

“In that case, I’d best return the Elvenking’s princess before he sets his hunters on my beard!” with that, he swiftly remounted and with a great yell from the Dwarf, the giant ram sped off down the slope towards the Elves. Behind them followed the army. Rhonith was laughing freely from the back of another ram, which had been handed over by one of Dáin’s lieutenants. “Baruk Khazâd!” they cried, as one, though the anger had been subsumed by a desire to show off; raising their weapons and controlling the large mounts with ease born of long practice as they stopped in perfect formation facing the Elves.

When the Elves, who could not hear the words of Dáin and Rhonith, saw the great ram barrelling towards them with the full dwarrow army on its heels, their bows, which had been relaxed slightly when it was clear that their King’s sellig was unharmed, tensed once more.

“ _Atheg! Lasto Dáin_[151]!” a joyous voice called, making the Elvenking halt his archers once more. Legolas shook with fury, having lost sight of her. When Dáin arrived in front of Thranduil, Legolas finally found Rhonith in the mass of advancing dwarrow. Her braids were dancing in the wind as she steered the massive ram with her legs, one arm raised, holding her blade aloft to wink in the sunlight. Gleeful laughter shone on her face, and Legolas felt a twinge of unease. This was – to his mind – not his Rhonith. This was Geira, daughter of Narví, and the disparity within her became clearer as she came closer to his eyes, exhilaration painted on her features. She had never reacted thus to riding the elks of Mirkwood or the horses of Imladris. He lowered his bow. Clearly there was no need to protect her from the dwarrow. He returned his arrow to its quiver and slung his bow onto his back, keeping his face impassive as he watched her come to a grinning halt in front of Thranduil’s Great Elk.

“ _Sellig_.” The Elvenking nodded.

“ _Atheg-nîn, est Hîr Dáin Náinion estannen_.” She gestured to the red-haired Dwarf, who scowled. Rhonith smiled mildly, before turning to Lord Dáin. “Lord Dáin of the Iron Hills, I am pleased to introduce to you the King of Mirkwood, Thranduil Oropherion and the future King of Dale, Bard the Bowman.” She bowed. Thranduil nodded regally from his mount and Bard made a peculiar half nod half bow which Legolas managed not to snicker at. After all, Bard had not been raised as a nobleman, and it was probably unfair of him to expect the Man to have a full grasp of diplomatic greetings.

“Lord Dáin, welcome to Erebor. It grieves me to meet you under these circumstances, but I believe your aid will be needed soon.” Thranduil said, polite but distant and Legolas wondered if his Ada had also been struck by the obvious difference in their elleth. His heart ached, feeling further from her than ever before. Legolas had never really seen her interact with dwarrow, the Company and Lothig’s parents hardly counted as seeing her among dwarrow. Yet here she sat, making polite introductions between her two people and looking as much at home beside Dáin as she had ever seemed beside him. Perhaps more. The three rulers made their way towards Thranduil’s tent and Legolas followed in morose silence. He had nodded curtly to Dáin when he was introduced and felt that he should be commended for managing even that towards this… Dwarf. The way Dáin was staring at Rhonith was almost covetous, and Legolas’ already black mood darkened. With a word in Sindarin to his Ada, the Prince made his way out of the tent, heading towards the northern ridge and Ravenhill Watchtower.

* * *

 

Later, Dáin made his way to the Front Gates, unaccompanied by any Elves, and with only two of his own most trusted generals at his back.

 

* * *

 

“Do you realise what you did by giving away the Arkenstone, Master Baggins?” The elleth’s soft voice startled Bilbo out of staring forlornly at the mountain, where Dáin was shouting words that the wind ate before they reached him, but which made Thorin scowl mightily.

“I bought peace…?” he had thought it was obvious. Her sad smile told him otherwise.

“You bought a peace, mellon-nîn, and it was dearly paid, even if Thorin’s Company survive the next few days. You have stolen the Arkenstone, which is considered one of the greatest treasures of the race, the symbol of the right to rule Durin’s Folk. Currently, Bard is King, as the holder of the stone, to any Dwarf’s mind. Such was Thrór’s love for the gem that he tied the ruling power of his people to its possession. The wielder of the Arkenstone is the Dwarven High King of the Three Clans of Durin’s Folk, which makes him a powerful figure. The Blacklocks, Stonefoots, Stiffbeards, and the Ironfists would pay him homage, though not fealty, and he could call them all to his banner in defence of the stone.” She sighed, patting Bilbo’s shoulder as the hobbit turned pale with realisation. “You have stolen this treasure, and though your intentions were good, the consequences may reach further than anyone can imagine. It was one thing to lose the symbol of his rule to a dragon, most would agree that Thrór did everything in his power to defend it, even to the point of having to be dragged from the Treasury by his son, but to have it stolen right from under your nose by someone you called friend… Thorin will not look lightly upon this betrayal, and once Dáin’s soldiers learn of your part in the situation…” she paused, letting the silence speak eloquently. Bilbo gulped. “I recommend you stay by the Wizard, myself, or Thranduil, even Bard. Anyone not too closely affiliated with Dwarrow.”

“But you’re closely affiliated with Dwarrow,” Bilbo exclaimed, suddenly fearful and took a step back. Rhonith gave him a sad smile.

“I am. However, I am also aware of much more than you may realise in regards to the powers at work. I believe that taking the stone away from Thorin was the best thing to do for him personally, even if he may never forgive you. Smaug’s spells lay heavily over the whole treasure, I’d wager, but the significance bestowed on the Arkenstone by Thrór made it smell all the sweeter, and I can feel Smaug’s dark powers surging inside it. It is calling to me, whispering in my mind when I am close enough, words I might understand if only I picked it up.” She grinned wryly, “I am stronger than the spells, however, and I know that my thoughts are sent from the stone, to poison my mind, rather than feeling its treacherous words as my own thoughts. Enchantment lies heavy upon that rock, and until it is safely returned to the Mountain’s bosom and ritualistically cleansed by one of the Mountain’s Singers, I would not trust anyone to hold it safely. Even you, Master Baggins, felt reluctant to part with it, or you would have spoken when you first found it, I’m sure. You struck me as a particularly honourable fellow when we met, and I have had no reason to change my assessment of your character – current burglary notwithstanding.” She winked, and Bilbo couldn’t help but smile. It was thin and stretched, but it was a genuine smile.

“Balin said he thought it was better if it remained lost. He knew Thorin was becoming gold-mad, recognised the signs from Thrór.” Bilbo tried to explain, even though he knew that part of his reason for hiding the stone had been exactly as Rhonith guessed; a marked reluctance to relinquish such a beautiful thing. Even though hobbits did not generally favour the beauty in gems and metal, even Bilbo had to admit that the Arkenstone was special.

“In a way, it is sad,” Rhonith mused, “One of the only points around which all Dwarrow will rally, and it’s simply a shiny bauble. If I’m honest, I think their willingness to protect it stems from a desire to possess it, rather than anything else. I hope Thrór learns of this predicament in Itdendûm. It would have been far more sensible to leave the ruling power within the bloodline, but his decisions in his later years on the throne were not particularly sensible by anyone’s definition. Fret not, Master Baggins, when this is all over, I will personally escort you back home. **Amê, birasatdani Khazâd-buhel uksatul,** **galabiyê ai-tada, Bâhaimê **[152]****.” With a last squeeze of his hand, Rhonith left Bilbo to his thoughts, and the hobbit walked off to look for Gandalf. He did not want to think about the ramifications of his actions, but he could not help but see over and over again the look of deep hurt as well as abject betrayal that had crossed Thorin’s face when he heard his Burglar speak the most damning of words: _I gave it to them._ Bilbo cringed, seeing again the shock on his friends’ faces, and understanding them better with Rhonith’s explanation. To the Dwarrow, giving Bard the Arkenstone was tantamount to declaring Thorin unfit to rule his own people. That _Bilbo_ , one of the Companions, thought that a _Man_ would be a better king for the Dwarrow than the rightful ruler or one of his heirs. Bilbo did not feel the tears that travelled slowly down his face as he walked, but Gandalf saw their tracks and felt a stab of pity in his old heart. Bilbo did not deserve to be thought of as a traitor and false friend when he had simply been trying to ensure that Thorin could keep his hard-won mountain. The wizard could only hope that one day the stubborn Dwarf-King might reconcile with his Burglar from the Kindly West.

 

* * *

 

When Dáin returned to camp, his mood had blackened with an intensity not oft paralleled in the usually jovial, but shrewd leader. His orders were terse and short as he moved towards the tent that held the Elvenking and his new cousin. He had spent most of the months since departing from Thorin at the Lords’ Council worrying that his cousin was heading towards certain doom, and now that ominous portend seemed to have come to fruition. He had always looked up to Thorin, but he did not recognise his stalwart and brave cousin in the cowardly and paranoid Dwarf who had hurled abuse at him from the ramparts while his cousins stood behind him looking decisively sick with stress and fear.

* * *

###### notes:

[143] Deer-riding tree-dweller. Pour my shit on the naked-jawed ones.

[144] Lord Dain Ironfoot of the Iron Hills! I want to talk to you!

[145] You(disrespectful) are proof that Mahal has a sense of humour.

[146] Of Kicker’s line /descendant of Kicker

[147] I am a child of Mahal

[148] Hail and well met, cousin. I believe you.

[149] Come back

[150] Curse of all curses upon the orcs.

[151] Father, listen to Dáin.

[152] To me, you remain most true Dwarf-Friend. My word on that, **my** friend. The noun- _im_ -genitive determiner interfix model is used to stress belonging or ownership.


	24. Family and Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relatives are always trouble, tempers are fraying at the edges and prayers are said. Some find that the dark days reveal things they had not expected, but even in darkness, light and laughter may be found.

For some reason, Legolas seemed to have vanished into thin air when Rhonith tried to look for him in between being dragged around to meet Dáin’s highest-ranking followers. The Lord of the Iron Hills seemed incapable of tiring of the phrase ‘Ma Elf-cousin, ye ken’; even if it had already begun to grate on her nerves with the fifth repetition let alone the 25th. One old greybeard she recognised from Hanar’s forge in Erebor and the dwarf was so confounded by her lack of change in appearance that he had to be fetched strong drink to get past the shock. Dáin had guffawed loudly when the smith had exclaimed repeatedly to anyone within earshot that he had never known that Hanar’s frequent visitor was an _Elf_ – something he seemed rather offended by, in truth – but since her talent with jewellery was clearly a testament to Dwarven skill and cleverness, he had always assumed she was simply a very tall Dwarf. Rhonith had simply chuckled and taken her leave of him quickly.

Turning her attention back towards finding Legolas proved fraught with difficulty as Dáin seemed to have attached himself to her side like an overgrown barnacle. The boisterous Dwarf was good company, if a tad loud, and his fiery hair made her think of her mother’s best friend from Khazad-dûm. Dróin had had the same wild curls, a trait also evident in Glóin, and the colour was a distinct Firebeard characteristic. She idly wondered if Dáin might be a descendant, but decided wisely not to enquire. Dwarrow of noble lines were usually trained from birth to know their ancestors and discussions of lineages were serious and hour-long once started. Not unlike some Hobbits, she mused, sending a fond thought to Bilbo’s conversation underneath Goblintown[153]. She knew her own line, and felt more than satisfied that tracing her blood to Durin was as simple as going back one generation. In Erebor, if they could find nothing else to argue about, determining the exact amount of Durin-blood in the veins of any individual – through marriage or not – was a favoured pastime in many an inn. Scholars were paid highly to create elaborately decorated family trees, and if the couple could afford it, they would usually have drawn an entirely new and combining tree upon the eve of their marriage. The most affluent Dwarrow even had them woven into tapestries; Lady Vrís had had a very lucrative business making such tapestries, in fact. Rhonith smiled at the thought; Hanar had once – and only once – enticed her into a discussion of how exactly they were related, a task that ended up spanning days and several rolls of paper as the Dwarf traced his blood back to their most common ancestor. It turned out to be a great-uncle of her mother’s but the exercise had given Rhonith a healthy aversion to any talk of genealogy. Even if most Dwarrow were at least 90 by the time they had children, there were still far too many generations between her birth and now for the task of untangling family relations anything but onerous. Instead, she utilised a combination of her most courteous manners – first learned at the Khazad-dûm court and refined by the Elven art of polite insulting – and her skills at sneaking around unnoticed to disappear among the Elves.

Once more, she set her mind to finding the elusive Prince of Mirkwood, wanting to know why he had seemed so angry with her. She had not believed Dáin would harm her, the prospect of an elf speaking Khuzdul – while it might anger any Dwarf – would be too great a mystery to leave unsolved.

 

* * *

 

 

Atop Ravenhill Tower, Legolas watched the busy camp of the Elves as they prepared for battle. The Dwarrow had erected tents in a separate camp beside the main one, but traffic between the two was thick as commanders sought to coordinate efforts. Dáin had gone to speak once more with Thorin, and though Legolas had not heard the words from his crumbling perch, the rush of activity that followed his return spoke clearly of the Dwarf-lord’s agitation. His audience with the King had not gone well, the hiding elf surmised, dropping down below a crumbling piece of stonework, leaving the bustle of the busy camps to play out without him to witness it. He had seen the pale hair of Rhonith – no, she was Geira now, he admonished himself – following the red of Lord Dáin, and Ada would not miss him till evening meal. Legolas had told him he would go scout with Faindirn. He had not actually had any intention of either scouting or keeping company with anyone but his own shadow, of course, but the glint in Thranduil’s eye told him that his father had not believed his slight lie but would let him leave without fuss. No one knew _when_ the Orcs would come, and the waiting was driving them all a little crazy.  
Resting his back against the cold stone, Legolas felt thankful for his warm fur cloak. The soft fur was comfortable and he easily settled in to await the coming of night. The sun would set early this time of year, but he would have hours of privacy in which to brood over the morning’s revelations. He had never cared that Rhonith was counted as a peredhel until this moment. As he sat, staring north across the wastes, he tried to determine why it bothered him so much _now_ when it had never previously been a factor. She had always simply been Rhonith, his – even if she wasn’t really _his_ – Rhonith. The wandering storyteller, who made his heart beat faster with her smile, who had never bested him in archery since he had reached adulthood, but who always ran the practice run with him anyway, the one he told all – aside from the one he kept in his heart of hearts – the secrets Ada could never know. Rhonith was his friend, no matter her parentage, he was certain. Legolas wondered if he was actually biased against her mother’s blood, but further contemplation decided that wasn’t the reason the sight of her among the Iron Hills army had been so unsettling. Eventually, he decided that it must be the fact that she had never seemed so unlike the Rhonith he knew, but that wasn’t true either. The wildness and fierce spirit he loved in her often came to view when they would run through the forest together, hunting or simply competing for fun. It was the same emotion her face had portrayed earlier, astride the large ram, the same, even if it was slightly different. For the first time, he wondered if she actually spent a lot of time in the company of Dwarrow, or whether the quick decay of her mortal kinsmen hurt her like it had hurt the great Lord Elrond, reducing her to a mere spectator in their lives. If her joy in their way of life was so all-encompassing because of its inherent brevity. He had not thought about it before, but hearing that Lothig – who was in his mind little more than adolescent – had had grandchildren fully-grown when she died had shocked him deeply. For all that he had lived alongside a Dwarf Mountain for almost a thousand years; Legolas had never really cared to get to know individual persons. His diplomatic duties were few and far between – even before Thrór returned the seat of power to Erebor after the death of his father – and he had only ever been required to know the name of the current ruler when he visited. Lost in thought, he simply stared across the snow-dotted landscape, snugly wrapped in fur and sheltered from the chill wind by the stone battlements at his back.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Na vedui **[154]**! There you are!_ ” When Rhonith’s head popped up over the stonework, her shout startled Legolas out of a light doze.

“ _Here I am._ ” He replied dumbly. The elleth scowled, swinging herself lithely over the withered stone to sit beside him. She tilted her head, staring searchingly at him. Legolas sighed and gave up his pretence at wanting privacy. Lifting his arm, he wrapped one side of his large cloak around her, leaving them both sheltered from the chill of the air. Smiling, Rhonith tucked herself against his side, pulling the fur tight around her upper body and letting her legs dangle over the edge of the broken precipice.

“ _So why are you up here, Glasseg?_ ” and her use of his old nickname meant she was serious about making him spill whatever was troubling him. Legolas groaned internally. He did not know how to explain why he was unsettled without sounding like he disdained her non-elven parent. Rhonith did not speak, letting him gather his thoughts quietly.

“I could have said goodbye to the Company long before we reached Mirkwood if I had wanted. Do you know why I decided to help them?” She asked suddenly. Legolas gratefully took the kind offer of more time to order his thoughts, giving her a slight noise of interest.

“They’re your kin, even if it is distant. You have always cared what happens to the _Naugrim_. In addition, Thorin is the son of Lothig. I did not see it at first, because he looks so much like Thrór, but there is much of Hanar in him… or so I thought, before yesterday.” Legolas replied. He ignored the scowl she sent him at the term he used.

“That right there is why. When Dwarrow lose their mountains, be it to Orcs or dragons or even Durin’s Bane, the Eldar see it as their due for not being Eru’s true creations!” she cried angrily. “Even you, who should know better, with how many times I’ve told you, call them _Naugrim_ as if they are not exactly as they are meant to be. As if their growth was stunted, just because they are not given the height of the Eldar, something they neither need nor want. The first-born did the same to the Hobbits, you know, calling them half-lings, as if they ought to be ashamed that they are not a physical match to the Elves in the way that Men are. No, Legolas, I chose to help my kinsmen, not because they are my kinsmen, but because no one else will. The Eldar do not care much for other races, for we have grown complacent in our long lives, only rarely bestirring ourselves for the troubles of the world. My mother’s kin are a displaced people, and instead of helping, haughty elves simply sneer at their skill and their rich culture as if it matters not!” Jumping up from her perch, shaking off Legolas’ cloak, Rhonith began pacing angrily. “When Orcs befouled Mount Gundabad, the Maker’s Workshop, where Dwarrow were made and Durin woke, no one cared. When Belegost and Nogrod fell into ruins with Beleriand, the Elves were quick to offer aid to the Dúnedain, but gave little thought to the perils of the Dwarrow who called the mountains home. The Firebeards and the Broadbeams were left to fend for themselves until they found a home with Durin’s Folk, the Longbeards, in Hadhodrond[155]. I don’t doubt many of the Eldar who remembered Doriath thought it justice long overdue, but…” She sighed. Having not yet been born at the time, she could only speculate based on the histories she had read, and those were usually written by Elves. The Dwarrow histories tended to be radically different in key points, though the truth could probably be found somewhere in between. Whether Thingol had denied the Dwarrow Masters fair payment for their skill in creating the Nauglamir, or whether the Dwarrow had been overcome with greed at the sight of the Silmaril, none now lived who knew. Thingol was long dead, and the two Dwarrow who survived and brought back their tale to Belegost had perished in the following war too. “When Hollinn fell, the Dwarrow of Hadhodrond came to their aid, sending a great host to defend the Gates and let the Elves escape through the mines. Durin mostly fought because of his friendship with my father, and though they did not manage to defeat Sauron, they did manage to shut the gates and keep him from gaining the Misty Mountains for a stronghold. They returned to their secluded lifestyle after the war, but when Durin’s Bane forced them out of Khazad-dûm, leaving the great Hadhodrond to fall into darkness? Elves did little but shrug and offer a few handouts, a few even saying that the Longbeards had it coming, for their greed had made them delve too deeply. Once more, my kin faced destruction and ruin, and yet the world told them that they deserved it. As if children could deserve to die like that. I was there, I watched my kinsmen, those who might have been my descendants if not for my father, suffer and die, I watched them lose everything. I helped them find a new sanctuary, and when the three Clans of Hadhodrond finally settled, they had only five centuries in Ered Mithrim, before the Cold-Drakes displaced them once more, again with little more than a shake of the head from our kin. Dwarrow have learnt, bitterly, that they can rely only on themselves in times of crisis. Eru’s First-born Children will never consider them anything but second-rate.” She sighed, gazing towards the Elven army sadly. “This time, I swore to do more, more than simply aid in finding them new homes. I have been simply watching too long.” She smiled softly, but Legolas did not like the look in her eyes. She had seemed uneasy and wary ever since she returned from Dol Guldur, but the sight of Smaug’s burned corpse had not brought her the peace he had quietly expected. “With Smaug gone, the last of the great Firedrakes dead, there should be no danger here, and yet Orcs are marching towards the mountain as we speak, seeking to claim yet another Longbeard stronghold for their own, and fill it with their foul stench.” Turning back to look at the still seated Prince, she gave him a sad smile, “You know, I expected that, when we were found by a patrol in the forest, they would attack my companions, would lead them to Atheg in chains if they could. Had it not been your patrol, I am fairly certain that would have been exactly what happened, no matter what status I have in Thranduil’s court. I expected that, and I know Thorin expected worse, but he still chose to trust me with the success of his quest, all for the sake of the most tenuous of connections between us. Thorin trusted me, someone he had never met and had little reason to believe, for his hatred of the Elves for their cruelty and neglect is deeply rooted in his soul. Thrór planted the seed, coaxed the first shoots, but the Eldar themselves did the tilling and weeding around it, making it bloom strong and fierce. Dwarrow are not made to change but to endure. Their rougher edges can be smoothed by time and struggle and King Thorin has struggled more than most.”

“He is not a King,” Legolas spat. The insults that had been hurled from the battlements rankled. The far-too-close-to-becoming reality fate of Bilbo Baggins filled him with horror. _How could Rhonith defend such a savage character? Surely Thorin was Thrór remade,_ he thought, grimacing.

“He will remember who he is before this is over, and when he does, I expect he will be greatly shamed by his actions, his weakness.” Rhonith said quietly. “He had to fill a position for which he was far too young, and he has been the best King the Longbeards could ask for. He took a people, displaced by fear and torn apart by war and greed, and made for them a new home, where they have at least had peace, if little in way of prosperity. You should not judge him till you have yourself felt the power of dragon gold. Dragon lure is strong, almost impossible to deny, but I have seen Thorin’s soul, and I have faith he will win out in the end. He has already fulfilled his purpose in reclaiming the Mountain for his people; now awaits the task of making it a safe and happy home, as task that will take all of his rule and possibly Fíli’s too.” She suddenly smiled brilliantly. “I want to see him become the King I know he can be, by my life if I have to.” Those words filled Legolas with dread, filling his thought with images he had thought long banished, seeing her death a thousand ways whenever she told him of near-scrapes she had been in while travelling.

“I don’t think I ever realised how much of you is Dwarven, Rhonith,” he finally said quietly. The other, darker realisation he had just had, Legolas would do his very best to forget. With a fervent vow that he would protect her in the fighting to come, he stared quietly at her, wondering if his expression gave away his sudden hopelessness and dread.

“How so?” she asked, her voice cool with the ghosts of old hurts. Legolas almost startled, having quite forgotten the statement he had simply thrown out to fill the expectant silence after her long tirade. She had turned away from him once more, staring across the Desolation of Smaug. Suddenly, Legolas wished nothing more than to take her far away from here, to watch her laugh in peaceful joy, to banish the darkness that seemed to hang over her head.

“I watched you ride among them earlier.” With effort, he returned his thoughts to the topic he had so carelessly blurted out, trying to salvage what little fondness she had left for him in the moment. He almost missed hearing the moniker ‘incorrigible princeling’ but he dared not hope for a sudden return of their usual banter. This Rhonith seemed far more serious than the one he had met under the boughs of Mirkwood, trailing a Company of Dwarrow. “I have never seen you look like that. So very free, so joyously wild. In comparison, you are practically silent among our kin.” Legolas carefully hid how much the observation pained him. Was that the true reason for her infrequent visits? Did she feel unwelcome in Mirkwood?

“ _Law iston, mellon-nîn.”_ She turned around, but not quickly enough to see the hurt in his eyes nor to mask her own wistfulness. “Freedom? I have never been truly free.” She chuckled mirthlessly, turning to lean on the crumbled stonework once more, folding her legs beneath her. “My very being was the first tooth in the jaws of my prison. Do you know why Atya called me Almarië? Not only because I was a blessing to him, but because I was never meant to live. I am unique in all the history of my two races. Since the first Fathers woke, there have been three children of Elf-Dwarf couples. _Three_.” She emphasized, “I am the only one who lived to be born. There will never be another like me, and though they call me peredhel, I am not like those born of unions between Men and Elves. Peredhel are usually one race or the other, through choice, but I am both Dwarf and Elf. I never made the choice, for I was always an Elf with the traits of a Dwarf as well as a Dwarf with traits of an Elf. Many of ‘our kin’ believe that I should not exist, that I am a product of Dark Magic, rather than created through my parents’ love. That a child of Eru could breed with one of the _Naugrim_ ,” and the way she spat the word made Legolas fervently swear to himself that he would never again use it. “Is almost unthinkable. And that is the word they use; breed. As though my mother was not the best dwarrowdam, the most skilled stonemason and engineer, the most famed beauty of her race; as though she was not the love of my father’s life. They speak of her as if she was simply an experiment to him, as though he lay with her simply to try it out. They think me an abomination, and the fact that I have lived through all that happened to me, through the great Wars of my ages only makes them whisper about sorcery more often.  
Among my mother’s kin, I enjoy the status of kinship with Durin, but they do not see me as lesser for having an immortal sire and a mortal mother… Dwarrow are altogether a far more practical race, concerned with my skills rather than my heritage. When I travelled with the Company I heard nothing but polite questions regarding my parents, no sneers or raised noses at my mixed blood. Even Thorin, who was poisoned against our kind from an early age, only asked me for things I was willing to give; my time, my advice, and stories of Dwarrow I have known in the past. To Dwarrow I am… proof, if you will. Proof that Eru truly did adopt the Children of Mahal, and made them equal to the First-born. I have always felt like one of them when I am among Dwarrow, something I cannot say for my immortal kin.” She had found her way back to sit beside him, her mithril head resting on his shoulder. “The Woodland Realm is sheltered, Legolas, and it has been my haven ever since Atheg took me in. The elves of Lothlórien either knew my father or have been told his story; they accept me for his sake, though many are only friendly towards me because Galadriel is my cousin. What you think is my freedom is my rootlessness. I have no home, since the fall of Hollinn, though I have lived many places. I may call Lothlórien home, but it is not really my true home.” She sighed, slumping against his shoulder. “Sometimes I wonder, you know.” She paused, gazing at something only she could see, “Sometimes, I think it would have been better to have died, to have found my place in the Halls of Waiting, than to wander Middle-Earth as I have.” Legolas couldn’t help but stiffen at her words, now truly worried for the outcome of the upcoming battle. Casting his thoughts back in time, he conjured up an image of Rhonith as she had been merely two yén before. The comparison was startling. Rhonith in the time before and during Lothig’s stay in Greenwood had been soft and gentle, though she had had the temper of her mother’s blood running hotly through her veins. Rhonith of today seemed harder, but strangely brittle. He wondered if it was the recent revelations of her past that made her seem so, or if she had truly changed as much as he suddenly feared. Her core was still his Rhonith, the elleth who would tell him stories of Oliphaunts and dance with him under stars with a glowing smile on her face, but it was hidden beneath armour he had never seen before. Her smiles seemed slower in coming, and the way she was speaking of death… Legolas felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold stonework at his back.

“I’m glad you did not.” He croaked hoarsely, mind whirling. Never before had he heard her sound so despondent and it scared him to the depths of his soul. “You are my friend, and I love you. My life would be much different without your infrequent visits, you know. Ada loves you too,” Legolas skated easily past the differences in their loves for the elleth who had once more wrapped herself in his cloak, “He would do anything for you. He marshalled our forces for the sake of a Dwarf for you!” he chuckled lowly, feeling her smile against his shoulder. A breath of relief escaped him as he wrapped his arm tightly around her smaller frame. He wanted to ask her not to take part in the upcoming battle, but mastered the impulse, squashing it ruthlessly even as it filled his head with visions of dread.

“Atheg has been more than good to me. Him and Nínimeth both. _Avo drasto, Legolas. Gweston ú gwannathon **[156]**._ ” She said quietly.

They lapsed into calm silence, watching the ravens flying through the air. The old Roost, which had given Ravenhill its name, had fallen down decades before, clipped by the dragon’s wing on his last forage. The Ravens that were returning to the Mountain had had to find new homes, and the search for a better nesting-spot was ever ongoing. Eventually, the sun began painting the sky brilliant shades of purple and red, burnishing the clouds in gold and umber. Legolas go to his feet, easily lifting Rhonith to hers and was struck by the stark beauty of the solitary mountain peak in the colours of the sunset. He couldn’t help but smile. In their absence, the Dwarrow had been busy building fortifications and digging earthworks. The two camps, while still easily distinguishable, now had a look of a true defensive measure and he was quietly glad of the presence of Dáin’s folk – not Dáin himself, he scowled – but his soldiers were obviously experienced in open warfare, where his father’s army was altogether more suited to guerrilla warfare in their own forests. They had not gone to war outside their own realm since the Last Alliance in any great number, and most of those who had not perished with Oropher had either faded into death for the most part or sailed West in the intervening years, unable to cope with their grief and sorrow. Rhonith’s soft voice beside him interrupted his thoughts, a fervent prayer falling from her lips.

“Great Maker, watch over those of your children who will not see another moonrise. Strengthen your sons and daughters, O Father, and let their Way to your Halls be straight and true. Let your Voice fill us on this eve of battle and let the souls of our forebears welcome us with songs and pride. Let the Halls ring with gladness of a foe defeated. Mahal, hear us, as we call to our Father, and we will watch the flames of battle burn bright.” She too was staring, but not across the camp, instead her face was turned west, towards the setting sun. As his keen eyes rowed across the landscape below them, he noticed the apparent stillness of the Dwarven camp. Every visible Dwarf had turned to face the sun, as its brightness disappeared at last behind the dark boughs of Mirkwood, to mortal eyes only visible as a smudge in the distance. The last whisper beside him made him certain that Rhonith did not mean for him to hear her, as the rough Khuzdul syllables tumbled almost inaudibly from her lips: “ **Mukhuh Mahal mahtasakhi uru marâbu naddadê ra bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi mâ**.[157]” With that, she grabbed his hand and began making her way down from the tower, avoiding the precariously balanced stones whenever possible, moving quickly but with the surety of Dwarven eyes in the deepening darkness.

 

* * *

 

 

Inside the mountain, the coming of Dáin’s army did not have the same uplifting effect as it had on Legolas. Thorin was raging that his cousin had been so easily taken in by the false Elvenking, but as he had banished everyone from the Treasury, his Khuzdul curses went unnoticed by the rest of the broken Company, who were still reeling from the events on the ramparts. Kíli and Fíli had yet to let go of each other, but the comfort they usually sought from Thorin was notably absent. The two young princes instead clung to each other and the Fundinul brothers. Dwalin had been their Uncle in all but name since birth, and Balin had always had time for all of their questions, even amidst a multitude of important lessons and strict teachings. The less intimately acquainted members of the Company left the four to their own thoughts.

Nori was silently despairing, trying to think of ways to get his brothers out of the battle to come. Even though Thorin had turned away from his cousin’s pleas just as he had ignored the Elvenking’s warnings, Nori was certain that they would be joining the battle either way. Either the young Crown Prince would give the order, and they would all follow him – because it was the right thing to do, not letting their cousins die for their mountain unaided – or Thorin would – by the grace of Mahal, perhaps – regain his senses, in which case it was still the right thing to do. The Thief quietly whimpered when Ori, altogether the most sensible Dwarf he knew after Dori, could speak of little but the warhammer Dwalin had helped him find in the old armoury and which felt like it had been made for his hand.

Dori was just as scared as Nori; the strong Dwarf having been in a few Orc skirmishes herself, the two older Ri's shared a firm conviction that Ori was not ready for all-out war, even if the little scribe thought so. Dori had thought the talk Dwalin had had with Ori might have calmed the lad’s enthusiasm, and though it had mellowed his fears in regards to the corpses that still littered Erebor’s abandoned corners, Dwalin’s words had done nothing to instil a true sense of what war would be like in Ori. Dori did not know whether to be thankful that her youngest brother might keep at least some shreds of his innocence or annoyed that the experienced warrior had not cautioned him more harshly. The young dwarf who had once proudly shouted that he’d give Smaug a taste of Dwarven iron up his jacksie had lost none of his youthful optimism. That they had survived Smaug seemed – to Dori and a fair few of the others, if they were being honest – to have been more a matter of luck and Thorin’s mad recklessness in the face of overwhelming danger than a question of the Company’s skills. Among them, only Dwalin, Balin, Thorin, Fíli, Kíli, and Bifur had ever received proper battle training. Dori had learned her skills through necessity, to protect herself and Arnóra during their many years wandering the surface. Nori, of course, would never elucidate on his training regime, but Dori knew better than to ask either way. Nori had always lived on the edge of survival, dancing through life in Ered Luin on the blade of a knife and leaving on long sojourns if the climate got too unfriendly. Sometimes he would be gone for months, leaving Dori sick with worry, even if Nori left a trail of news about his whereabouts in the gifts he’d send home from time to time. Dori knew that Nori was probably the most skilled fighter among them when it came to surviving against all manner of opponents, but she worried nonetheless.

Bofur sat in morose silence, poking intermittently at the fire as he had done ever since they had lowered Bilbo over the edge of the ramparts, watching him scamper down and head straight for the grey-robed wizard. He had known, as soon as Bard held up the Stone, who had delivered it from the Mountain, yet he had been screaming in his very soul for there to be another explanation. Nevertheless, Bilbo was the only one who would think of using the Stone like that while at the same time having no idea of its real value to their collective psyche. Only Bilbo’s utter ignorance could justify his actions in the Company’s minds. Even Nori wouldn’t have done something so heinous, and the list of things Nori either hadn’t or wouldn’t do was short enough to write along his palm, Bofur knew, based on his friend’s many stories. Bombur had tried to console the brooding miner, but the rotund Dwarf had been met with little success and eventually Bifur had dragged off the cook, letting Bofur have the silence he so obviously desired. Even the song of Erebor’s green stone, babbling like a happy brook in his mind, filling his soul with her joy at being rid of the dragon, could not lift Bofur’s spirits. He let the slight hum of the stone soothe him, in a way he had grown accustomed to in Ered Luin, but he found no true peace in it.  
Glóin and Óin were holding hands, sharing brotherly comfort in the gloomy quiet. While Erebor was as grand and full of splendour as the stories had claimed, it was also dark and dismal, almost echoing with the voices of those who perished. The Company had tried to identify as many bodies as they could, but as Thorin’s mood grew darker, desire to do much more than sift listlessly through treasure or staring into the fire faded away until only Balin and Ori seemed capable of rousing themselves from the sort of foggy state the rest of them simply existed in.

They were in the calm before the storm, but _which_ storm had yet to be determined. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Rhonith worries me,” Legolas said quietly. He had snuck into Thranduil’s tent after the evening meal, leaving Rhonith to be ambushed by Dáin once more. He had felt bad for abandoning her thusly, but he needed his Ada’s calm presence. If anyone knew Rhonith better than he did, it was Thranduil.

“You have seen it too, then,” Thranduil nodded, brows furrowed lightly in the manner that conveyed deep concern to those who knew how to read him. “She was changed by the darkness they fought in Dol Guldur, I fear.”

“But how? She claimed only Mithrandir fought the Shade, and she was not cut by a blade of the Nine.” Legolas asked. This was not the comfort he had expected, this was not Ada telling him it was all in his head like when he was small and had nightmares.

“I cannot say. It has come slowly, slithering like a snake beneath notice.” Thranduil replied. Pushing back his silken sleeves, Thranduil poured them each a goblet of his favourite wine. “Her spirit shines less bright, as though some cloud is obscuring the light.”

“She speaks of giving her life for Thorin’s cause, as if her death would mean little. She has never seemed so,” he paused, gulping a mouthful of wine to wet his parched throat, “so callous. She spoke of it so casually. Even on the day we first saw Smaug’s corpse, she told me she had considered sailing West, that she stayed only for the promise she made _Naneth_.” And Thranduil noticed Legolas’ word choice. Despite all the stories in the world, Legolas had never consistently referred to Nínimeth as his mother. She had mostly been the Queen or Nínimeth when he mentioned her at all. “Ada… I am scared for her. Even if she does not actively wish to die, she might easily succumb to such an impulse in the heat of battle.” Legolas ended with a whisper, “She might just fight to die honourably, like her mother’s kin.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, ionneg.” Thranduil winced at the desolate expression on his son’s face. He knew that Legolas was already imagining finding her lifeless body, torn apart by Orcs. “If she is tired of life in this world, we can do little to stop her from making her way to the hereafter. Nevertheless… stay by her side?” Thranduil swallowed heavily. He did not want the images in his head that were being stirred by the conversation. He remembered the small, emaciated figure they had rescued from the Dragon’s Cave, and he remembered her long convalescence after the War of the Last Alliance. He had always wondered if Rhonith’s injuries were not a major factor in Nínimeth’s initial recovery from her grief.

“I will. I will protect her.” Thranduil knew that it would be pointless to ask his son to be careful, but he itched to do it anyway. Would the oncoming storm leave him grieving two dead children this time? This war was nowhere near the scale of the War of the Last Alliance, but he had the same foreboding feeling of doom about it that he had had then. Last time, he had effectively lost all his remaining family, the consequences of Nínimeth’s madness so far-reaching. He had only seen his granddaughter Taworwen six times since her mother’s voluntary exile, and his great-grandchildren had never visited the Forest of their grandmother’s kin. _Valar guard us from such despair once more. Protect my son from my fate_ , he prayed fervently, something he had only rarely done since Nínimeth had left.

 

 

“Thank you, Legolas, for being such a good friend and abandoning me to Dáin’s fawning lieutenants!” the tempered elleth groused as she walked through the tent flap, not noticing the tense atmosphere inside. With some effort, Thranduil pasted a calm smile on his face and turned his blue eyes towards her agitated pacing.

“Not enjoying this attention from your kinsmen, sellig?” he asked mildly, even as he tapped Legolas’s foot under the table. The younger elf jumped, but managed to turn the involuntary motion into standing and pouring a cup of wine for the stormy elleth, who growled when she accepted the goblet, flinging its contents down her throat angrily. “Do savour the wine, dear, the supplies are not endless.” The Elvenking admonished, secretly laughing at her resemblance to her mother as she grumbled about ‘fawning arse-kissers’. Narví had – once he had gotten used to her presence in his friend’s life – been an endless source of amusement for him, having very little patience with what she called ‘smarmy, boot-lickin, back-stabbin arse-kissers!’ and paying little heed to whether the arse-kissers in question were of her hervenn’s kin or her own.

“I do not enjoy having my hand slobbered on!” she exclaimed, pacing furiously between the tent poles. “And if one more of them liken my eyes to sapphires from a specific mine in the Orocarni, I fear I shall do something drastic to shut him up!”

“So are your eyes like these fabled sapphires?” Legolas couldn’t help but interject coolly, but when Rhonith whirled on him, his mirth broke free in a large grin. This was not the almost-stranger of before, this was _his_ Rhonith and he wanted to kiss her breathless even as she continued her tirade.

“Mahal knows! None of them could agree exactly what grade sapphire either way, not whether it was a smoky sapphire or a star-burst!” She kept ranting this way for a few minutes – apparently comparing her hair to mithril silk, which, Legolas had to admit, was probably the closest mining related descriptor, was another topic of much debate, for was that spun mithril or beaten thin plates of it? Uncaring that she had lost her audience as she moved into more and more technical jargon, Rhonith barely even paused to draw breath, lost in her many annoyances. It had been so long since she had been with Dwarrow who believed that she held enough power to be worth sucking up to like this. She knew it was most likely the novelty of her presence and even her existence, as well as Dáin’s poorly concealed amusement that made them do it, but it vexed her regardless. Eventually, Legolas’ amusement waned, and on her next pass, he grabbed her swiftly round the waist and yanked. Her shriek and flailing landed her on his lap – he’d later claim entirely by accident – instead of the bench he had intended, but she shut up when his hand clamped across her mouth.

“ _I find gîn bain_[158], Rhonith.” he smiled cheekily, enjoying the way she glared daggers at him almost as much as the way she squirmed in his hold. “I’m sorry, _mellon_ , for leaving you so defenceless among the hounds,” he chuckled. Suddenly she stopped struggling, and her eyes lit up with mischief. Then she licked his hand. Legolas grimaced, but let go of her face.

“Incorrigible princeling. You’re lucky you’re my favourite, you know!” Rhonith laughed hard at the expression of incredulity that no doubt covered his face, but Legolas did not care overmuch at that moment. Then his brain reconnected, falling into their usual almost-childish banter.

“You _licked_ me!” he exclaimed, wiping his palm exaggeratedly on his tunic. Across the table Thranduil smiled softly, forgotten for the moment. Rhonith jumped lithely, dancing out of reach with a smirk.

“Yes. What are you going to do about it?” Rhonith’s smile was, if possible, even cheekier than his own had been, and her eyes danced merrily. Legolas could think of several fantasies of his that had begun with those very words and it took real effort to keep his face from giving away his lascivious thoughts.

“Children.” Thranduil said calmly. “Must you, really?” he chuckled, enjoying the brief respite of their laughter and play to penetrate the gloom that shadowed his every thought. It was a ray of sunshine. _Perhaps she is not yet beyond our keeping,_ he hoped.

The battle felt ever nearer, a pall hanging over them all, like a bad omen.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Shire-rat! I should never have trusted the treacherous Burglar!_ _How could he do that? We considered him kin! He stole my birth-right, my people’s hope!_ Thorin’s thoughts whirled.

 _Your revenge will come,_ it was no more than a whisper, but it filled him with fierce satisfaction. _Yes, my revenge will be terrible. I will take back the Stone, and see the traitor’s head severed from his body! They will rue the day they dared steal MY treasure!_

Thorin stumbled, looking at the mound of gold surrounding him. He was alone. Shaking his head, he banished the thought of Bilbo’s curly hair blowing in the breeze from its place on a spike outside the Gates. He shuddered. Bilbo did not know what he had done, surely. He would be clement in his judgement when the Stone was returned; magnanimous towards his former friend. _A life for a life._ Nodding to himself, he swept out of the Treasury. There was little reason to stay, after all, when the Stone was stolen. He moved swiftly to the Throne Room, gazing up at the place where the Arkenstone should have been; where it had sat, luminous and glowing, above Thrór’s head, so many years ago. He smiled, almost able to see himself as a young prince, standing next to the Throne during some diplomatic visit or other. He remembered the day Thrór had spurned the haughty Elvenking, and a wicked grin crossed his face. _That cur will never see his precious White Gems!_ he swore. _I will keep them, teach him never to cross me again!_

The King paced, waiting for something he could not define, rage boiling in his blood.

 

###### notes:

 

[153] The small hobbit had spent a fair while clarifying how he was related to someone who had once served him the most perfect lavender cakes, but would never part with the recipe, to Bilbo’s great consternation.

[154] At last!

[155] Underground-Dwarf-dwelling, also known as Dwarrowdelf of Khazad-dûm

[156]Do not fear, Legolas, I promise, I will not die

[157] May Mahal watch over my brothers’ souls and his hammer shield us. (To Legolas it sounded slightly different: muk-u’ Mahal matasakeeuruma’aahbu naddaday ra bekahzu Mahal tamrakhee may. – but he’s a Silvan elf and doesn’t actually read even his own language, so he didn’t much care about spelling the Dwarrow’s secret language.)

[158] Your hair is pretty.


	25. Ambushes and Insanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azog proves to be smarter than anyone realises and Thorin faces simmering mutiny. Dwalin loses something precious, and Kíli yells.

In the early morning hours, guards were attentively watching the landscape. The scouts had seen no sign of the approaching Orcs in the previous day, and the Men – at least – were getting restless. The Elves did not display their restlessness, but they knew that something had to give soon. Dáin’s arrival the day before had not given Thorin a change of mind, though the loud and rather brash commander had tried to speak with his cousin. Thorin had called him a vile betrayer of his kin, and Dáin had only barely kept a lid on his temper. A distant rumble, like the sound of thunder, caught the night guards’ attention, and runners were sent to fetch the Elvenking and his lieutenants as well as Dáin and his generals.

“It is not thunder, my Lord Thranduil,” the young guardsman was nervous, but certain. Faindirn’s eyes were among the sharpest in the Woodland Realm, and though clouds were rolling across the sky, they were not storm clouds related to any thunderstorm he had ever seen. These clouds would bring snow, if anything, but not thunder and lightning. Gandalf, who had kept a close eye on Bilbo since the hobbit’s return, grimaced and whispered darkly to himself.

“Were-worms!” Thranduil turned to look towards the base of the North-western spur of the Mountain. The rumbling grew closer.

“ _Tôl auth_[159]!” The Elvenking shouted, and the command ran like fire through the camp. The army assembled quickly. Shield- and spear-bearers gathered in front, facing the ominous spur, with the archers behind them. Dáin’s dwarrow positioned themselves throughout the Elven companies, his ram-cavalry on the flanks and infantry in front. The armies were silent as they stared towards the rumbling.

At the spur of the mountain where the rumbling was coming from, massive worms, hundreds of feet long and dozens of feet thick, broke through the rocks. Their mouths were essentially giant drilling machines, strong enough to crush the toughest rocks in their jaws. The human, Elf, and dwarf armies looked on in shock.

“Oh, come on!” Dáin shouted, incredulously watching the massive beasts. Silently, Thranduil had to agree; he had thought such creatures long-since extinct. Even the oldest of the Elves among the armies were staring. Were-worms had been employed by Sauron in the War of the Last Alliance, but they had not been seen anywhere civilised for millennia. The worms suddenly retreated into the tunnels they’d made through the ground approaching the Lonely Mountain.

 

* * *

 

 

As the mist cleared, Azog and a few other Orcs could be seen standing atop a hill. Behind them were several massive contraptions made of wood, rope, and cloth, meant as signalling devices, and bearing the mark of Moria Orcs.

“Come forth, my Armies!” Azog roared, in the distorted Westron common to Mordor’s kin. The slave-orcs were unworthy of speaking the Black Tongue, though he despised lowering himself to speaking the dustmen’s tongue almost as much as he despised the Durin Sons. As he gave a sign, one of the wooden structures opened up in a particular position, and a horn sounded. Immediately, legions of Orcs began pouring out of the were-worm tunnels.

“The hordes of Darkness are upon us! Du Bekâr! DU BEKÂR, DASHSHUT DURINUL!” Dáin bellowed. The war-cry was taken up by the rest of his soldiers, rushing towards the oncoming Orcs. The earthworks they had made the day before now came into play as the Dwarrow surged forwards, forming an unbroken defensive line in a crescent shape in front of the Gates of Erebor.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m going over the wall! Who’s coming with me?” Fíli shouted, watching the waiting warriors below fearfully but with an air of excitement nonetheless. Compared to the stifling atmosphere of fear inside Erebor, the fear of battle was exhilarating. The Company, who had joined him on watch after the first rumble had sent Kíli running to fetch them from the Treasury, cheered and began to look for ropes, preparing to climb down.

“Stand down!” Thorin shouted.

“What?” Dwalin said, shooting the King an incredulous look as he gestured towards the battlefield.

“Are we to do nothing?” Fíli asked, horrified, as he watched the Were-worms burst out of the rocky ground.

“ **Gulubmâ INSHIRABI NÎD**[160]!” the King roared. As Thorin walked away, the others looked on in shock and surprise. Eventually, they followed in silence.

 

* * *

Meanwhile, as Dáin and a company of his Dwarrow rushed toward the oncoming Orcs, the Elves stayed right where they were. The Dwarrow were massively outnumbered by the Orcs.

“The elves, will they not fight?” Bilbo asked, voice wobbly with fear. He had thought that his offering of the Arkenstone had swayed the unreadable Elvenking to help them despite Thorin’s obvious contempt, but the lack of action on Thranduil’s part had him worrying once more. 

“Thranduil! What are you doing!” Gandalf scowled.

Thranduil ignored the wizard’s angry shouting – Mithrandir had not been present for most of the strategy sessions with Dáin – and looked at the Iron Hills dwarves, who had stopped and built a shield wall with their massive spears pointed outward, led by the chants of their leader. The orcs were fast approaching the earthworks. He smiled grimly, raising his sword high into the air. “ _Savo chûr an dagor_ _! **[161]**” _ he shouted _. “ _Tangado haid! Leithio i philinn!_ ”_

Moving as one - right as the Orcs reached the Dwarrow - the Elves leapt up over the shield wall from behind the Dwarrow, wielding their swords, and began raining down hard blows on the Orcs. Behind the shield wall, the archers were showering volleys of death upon the Orcs further away. As the Elves pressed forward their advantage, the Dwarven shield wall was raised and the Dwarrow rushed forward, cutting down Orcs with their spears and axes. Dáin rode furiously through the Orcs, smashing them left and right with his hammer. With a massive bellow, he ordered the release of the Dwarven war machines, which had been placed at the perimeter of the camp. At Dáin’s command, the engineers pulled their levers and released the tightly coiled springs that powered the heavy weapons. A whirring sound filled the air, as five massive spears shot into the air above the battlefield. When the spears reached their zenith, the pull of gravity opened the contraptions like large umbrellas. The spears which were spinning around their own axis’s suddenly became massive spinning wheels, tipped with many sharp blades. The giant wheels ploughed into the Orcs that were still pouring from the tunnels. They did not reach all the way to the spur the worms had chewed through, but they dealt death on a larger scale than any single company of warriors could manage. Each of the five wheels took out a good twenty Orcs and left sharp blades for the rest the climb over as they charged the allies. The spear-whirlers were designed to block enemy volleys, but using their deathly force against an army of infantry was also possible. The Dwarrow had brought the catapults in preparation for clearing a path through Elves, but the engineers were much happier aiming at filthy Orcs. They managed to get off another volley of spear-whirlers before the soldiers on the ground were in the line of fire. A clever pull on a lever there and removal of a cog here had the five ballistae effectively disabled, and the engineers were free to join the battle proper. No Orc would make the machines turn against their masters, even if the allies were forced to retreat behind their first line of defence.

 

* * *

 

 

At the top of the hill, from the old Ravenhill Watchtower, Azog commanded his Orcs.

“Send in the War Beasts!” Azog barked, harsh Orcish syllables tearing through the chill morning air. The wooden signalling devices changed their positions to show a new signal.

 

* * *

 

 

Gandalf, seeing the signal change, looked toward the tunnels to see new legions of Orcs, including massive trolls and other monsters, come out.

“ _No guin i philinn dhîn!_[162]” Legolas shouted to his troops. The Elves stopped and pulled out their bows.

 

* * *

 

“They cannot fight on two fronts. Now we make our move.” Azog grinned, and behind him the signal post creaked into a new position. “Attack the wall!”

A horn was blown, loudly announcing the attack. Another legion of Orcs that had been waiting for the signal turned and marched toward the Mountain. With them came massive trolls, each large enough to carry multiple other orcs and wooden structures such as catapults on their backs, marching toward the mountain along with the armies of Orcs. In between the larger Orcs, smaller Goblins could be seen, scurrying forwards in their odd gait, easily able to outpace the Orcs, but staying back for the protection of the bigger bodies against the Elven arrows. Above them, giant bats flew, blocking out the pale winter sun that had cleared the horizon and begun its steady climb.

The monstrous trolls approaching the mountain stopped at a rise overlooking Dale. They bent over and planted all four legs on the ground, thus making their backs horizontal. On their backs, catapults were loaded with large rocks; orcs on the trolls’ backs wound up the gears of the catapults. At a signal from their leader orc, who struck the ground with his mace, the catapults were released, and the rocks flew toward the Dwarven and Elven armies blocking their access to the Mountain. Some catapults had been turned on Dale, but it was unclear whether Azog simply wanted wanton destruction or whether he thought Dale was occupied by people the armies would split up to protect. The rocks smashed into the walls and towers, destroying everything they hit. Bard could only thank the Valar that his people were not hiding among the ruins. They had taken Legolas’ advice and burned the bridge to Laketown behind them, and he hoped that the Orcs had not brought firebrand arrows. Laketown was almost entirely wood, unlike Dale, which had been built by Dwarven stone masons when Thrór resettled in Erebor.

One troll with a giant triangle-shaped rock strapped to his head ran up to the wall and smashed into it headfirst, knocking it down and knocking himself out in the same motion. It was a crude but surprisingly effective battle-ram. The orcs behind him rushed into the city through the hole, entering the houses and roaring in anger when they found no people within.

 

* * *

 

 

The bald Dwarf walked slowly towards the Throne Room. He did not want to see his Kurdel so different, but he had no choice. A war was raging, and the Company needed their leader, their King. He had found a new harness in the armoury, replacement for the one he had lost during the fight with the dragon. Grasper and Keeper peeked over Dwalin’s shoulders, their weight a familiar comfort. He hesitated outside the door. Inside, he could hear Thorin pacing. His mutters circled the traitorous Hobbit, and Dwalin’s heart twinged. The little Hobbit had only done as he had thought best, Dwalin could see that, but the dwarf did not think the Hobbit fully grasped the depth of his betrayal. The Arkenstone was a rock, yes, and a beautiful stone, but the significance of giving it to their adversaries… Dwalin shook his head. Even if Thranduil – and here he sent a wry thought of gratitude to their elleth – had proven himself a decent fellow upon further interaction, the Arkenstone belonged to the Dwarrow. It was a symbol of the right to rule, the right to call the seven clans under one banner. Thorin was a King with or without it, and if Dwalin were honest, he thought the seven clans should have rallied behind Thorin even with the Arkenstone being lost. He knew why they had set the condition, of course, just as well as Thorin knew that it was the losses at Azanulbizar that had made the Lords hesitant to pledge their people to the cause of Erebor. Thorin had ranted and raved, but in the end, even if it was just in the privacy of their bedroom, he had admitted that he had expected to be turned down when he pitched the idea of reclaiming Erebor to the Lords. Thrór’s madness had eroded their trust in the Line of Durin – and some would say rightfully so – and Thraín's disappearance had only hurt Thorin’s chances.

Dwalin opened the door and his heart lurched in his chest. There was his Kurdel, his One, his Thorin, looking every inch the king he had always been, even when dressed in filthy, work-stained and torn clothes. The fur cloak he had wrapped around his shoulders fell to the floor, a waterfall of black sable fur. His hair beads gleamed in the light, and Dwalin knew that the serviceable silver and iron clasps he had donned for the journey had been replaced by diamonds and sapphire jewels, even if they had not been put there by his hands. Thorin had not joined their camp even during the nights for some time now. Dwalin did not know whether Thorin had slept at all during the past week, but he feared the answer was a resounding negative. Thorin’s armour was a fine example of the best of Dwarven armour-making skill, better than anything that had been made since Erebor fell, as decorative as it was useful for defence. Every part of his outfit shone with the gleam of golden accents. He was still wearing his old gambeson, but the intricately tooled vambraces that Kíli had so painstakingly crafted for his last Nameday were gone, replaced by a pair of gold-decorated arm-guards. The Raven Crown perched heavily on Thorin’s brow, and Dwalin wished fervently that the look on his beloved’s face had matched the glory of their surroundings. Instead, Thorin’s eyes were sunken, his cheeks hollow and gaunt and his hair had lost the lustrous shine that Dwalin had always loved. His mouth was twisted in a snarl of rage, but the worst part, the very worst part, was the look in his eyes. The eyes that should have been deep Durin blue now seemed almost black with constant simmering rage. Dwalin did not recognise the dwarf he had first met as a stumbling nine-year-old, the dwarf he had played with, sparred with, laughed with for so many years. The dwarf he had sworn to marry no longer looked at him from Thorin’s eyes and the pain of that realisation almost brought the steadfast warrior to his knees. Where now was the heart that called to his own?

“Thorin.” His words made the King whirl around to face him, one hand going to the sword at his side. Dwalin did not flinch, but it took superior self-control not to take a step back from the mix of fear, rage, and outright hatred that shone in Thorin’s once-blue eyes. The dark shadows in his irises made the seasoned warrior falter. His next words were barely more than a whisper, “Thorin, Dáin, and the Elves are fighting. The Orcs have attacked. We must go out and fight. They will rally to the King.”

“Ha!” The King laughed bitterly. “I keep telling you, there are no Orcs. It’s a plot! It’s all a plot! They want the treasure. Such treasure. It must be protected. I will not part with a single coin! Not one!” he roared.

“Thorin, our kinsmen are dying on our doorstep. Our allies too. Will you do nothing? Will your honour let you abandon them in their hour of need? Azog…” he paused, but the name did not spark the usual recognition and hatred, “Azog is there. Bolg too.”

“No. We are protecting the treasure. No one will enter the mountain while we hold it!”

“Did you not hear me?! Dain is surrounded! They’re being slaughtered, Thorin.” Dwalin was rattled to his core.

“Many die in war. Life is cheap.” Thorin spat, reclining on the Throne. “But a treasure such as this cannot be counted in lives lost. It is worth all the blood we can spend!”

Dwalin took a step forward, pleading now, “Please, Thorin. We cannot just stand by and watch our kin slaughtered!” he reached for his lover, intending what, Dwalin did not know, but when his hand touched Thorin’s the King flinched back violently.

“Don’t touch me!” he screamed. Dwalin stared, mutely. The madness had full control of the King. He stood slowly, taking one step away from the Throne. Dwalin felt a frisson of hope, but it died with Thorin’s next words. “Do not speak to me as if I was some lowly dwarf lord…” As he spoke, Thorin was clearly struggling to get the words out, “As-As if I were still...Thorin...Oakenshield.” Dwalin could only stand there, as Thorin’s tenuous grasp of sanity thinned ever further.

“…”He opened his mouth to speak, but Thorin did not let him get a single word out, which was probably just as well, because Dwalin had no idea what he could say in this moment.

  
“I AM YOUR KING!” The King drew Orcrist, “You want me to die so you can have my treasure! Get out! GET OUT! Get out before I kill you!” he lunged, but did not follow when Dwalin stepped back. For a second his eyes were blue once more, though still haunted by fear and then the King returned to his throne, muttering under his breath. “Surrounded by traitors and assassins. Trust no one.”

Dwalin did not know if a broken heart was physically possible, but the pain lodged in his chest did not dissipate as he backed away from the mad dwarf.

“You were always my King… you used to know that, but now… now you cannot see what you have become.” He whispered, but Thorin did not seem to hear the words, staring at the top of the Throne where the Arkenstone’s fitting sat empty. “You sit here… with a crown upon your head – and you are lesser now than you have ever been.” One of Dwalin’s hands reached into his beard slowly. There, hidden from view, sat a tiny braid, the bead lovingly shaped and delicately engraved. Thorin had made it for him, many years ago, and the braid had been there just as long. They could not marry outside Erebor, but if it had been possible, this was his **‘athu bass **[163]** ** – the marker of their union. Dwalin yanked. The sound of silver falling onto stone chased his footsteps as he walked slowly back to the front door and the waiting Company. When he reached them, he did not see the way their eyes filled with worry at his ashen skin and empty eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin’s mind was racing. He could hear snippets of sound, as though many voices were trying to speak to him. Some were his own, but they sounded almost twisted to his ears. Dwalin’s words came back to him ‘lesser now than ever’, followed by Gandalf’s dry voice introducing him to Bilbo ‘Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór’. He tried to focus on a single voice, but they were all colliding around him, making his head spin. A few sentences stood out, louder than the rest. ‘Can you swear Oakenshield will not also fall?’, ‘Madness runs’, ‘Dragon beacon’ ‘Memory of Mahal’s joy in crafting’, ‘blind ambition of a mountain-king’, ‘I see Thrór in you, Thorin’, ‘not one single coin’.

 _Plink!_ He distantly heard the soft sound of the silver bead striking the stone, but it did not immediately register over the cacophony of voices. He froze. Turning around, he spotted the small silver ornament, shining against Erebor’s green stone. He stepped closer, wondering why it had been removed from the treasury. When he picked up the little bead, his fingers easily traced the inlaid runes and intricate scrollwork that he knew better than anyone but its bearer. His knees buckled, a single voice reverberating inside his skull. ‘ **Astû ablâkhul, amrâlimê’** _Dwalin, Dwalin, Dwalin!_ “DWALIN!” he screamed. Distantly he could hear a voice trying to convince him that Dwalin had betrayed him, but the sound of Dwalin’s Deep Name rang so loudly it was drowned out. Cradling the silver bead in his hands, eyes blurry with tears, Thorin sat there on the chilly floor, Dwalin’s face as he drew his sword playing on repeat in his mind. How could he draw a weapon against his own One, his love? How far had he fallen that he did not see his Dwalin, but a traitor? Thorin shuddered. Suddenly, he saw himself clearly; a jewel-bedecked figure head. Shaking fingers undid the fastenings on the gold-worked vambraces around his forearms. The laishly embroidered cloak followed swiftly, pooling on the green stone while Thorin’s eyes remained riveted to the small bead in his palm. He remembered the day he had finished the delicate work. The bead had sat in a pouch close to his heart for years after its crafting. He had known what it would be used for as soon as the design had appeared in his mind’s eye. The bead had waited quietly until the day his sister’s oldest son was born. Amid the celebrations for the new heir, he had dragged his lover off to his room and asked the question that had been burning in his soul for so long.

Thorin rose unsteadily to his feet. As he walked slowly out of the Treasury, the golden pieces of armour fell in his wake unheeded. His hands never stopped rolling the small bead around his fingers. Each heavy footfall screamed the name echoing in his heart. **Dehrar gêdul**[164].

 

* * *

 

 

“Will Uncle not fight?” Fíli asked, but Dwalin did not seem to hear him. The young Prince took two steps closer to the warrior who had been both teacher and uncle to him since the day he was born. He gasped when he got a better look at Dwalin. “Dwalin, what happened?” Fíli was getting scared. The feeling of dread only increased when Dwalin raised his head to look at him.

“The King drew his sword at me. He will not leave Erebor.” Dwalin’s voice was dead. The Company closed around him, Balin’s hand on his shoulder. Dwalin shuddered. “I don’t see Thorin in the King anymore, Fíli. I don’t see my Kurdel in his eyes.” No one knew what to say. The sounds of distant battle came from outside the Mountain, but no one moved from their frozen plateau.

After long minutes of silence, the Company returned to their family groups, huddling together. A few grasped their weapons loosely, sharpening already sharp edges, or checked and re-checked their armour.

Fíli and Kíli had taken positions on one side of Dwalin, Balin claiming his other side as they silently supported the grieving warrior. They had not found their One, and could not understand what their other Uncle was going through, but it was clear to everyone that something had broken in Dwalin. Something which had previously been a core of steel was now a ragged, bloodied and torn edge cutting into his heart. His apathy scared them. Dwalin had always been full of life, a pillar of strength, and now he was a greyed-out shadow of himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Leaving the ostentatious armour behind, Thorin slowly made it out of the Throne Room. Tears slowly travelled down his cheeks, blurring the hallways, but the Dwarf-King walked onwards steadily. In his chest, his heart, which had felt so cold since he had first laid eyes upon the familiar silhouette of the Mountain, beat a quick tattoo, spreading warmth throughout his flesh. He barely saw the splendour around him, the twinkle of light on gold nothing compared to the twinkle of Dwalin’s eyes in his mind. His hand clenched so tightly around the silver hair bead that its pattern might leave a permanent mark on his palm. The thought filled him with a fierce, savage pleasure. He wanted the mark of his soul upon his body, even if it was in such a small way. When he made it to the Entrance hall, looking over the gathered Company, his heart lurched in his chest. He would have sworn he felt the crack in it when he saw his Kurdel looking so very lost. His Dwalin should be strong like the Mountain, fiery like the hottest forge. Not look so washed out and pale, diminished. Thorin whimpered at the sight. He had seen Dwalin in pain, in grief, in love, but never before had the big warrior looked so defeated. He had put that look on the face of his One, his soul’s mate. Another whimper escaped him. Even as he stepped involuntarily towards his heart, Thorin castigated himself. He did not deserve Dwalin’s forgiveness, to say nothing of his love, but he knew that he had to try to make things right, even if they were broken beyond repair. The abject horror at his own actions clouded his sight and his mind, making him miss the glances from the Company as he made his slow way across the floor. Nori’s hand strayed suspiciously close to one of his numerous blades, but it stilled when he saw the anguish on the King’s face. That was not the face of a mad, angry and fearful dwarf, that face was one of a dwarf who had realised that he had lost something precious, possibly forever. Despite himself, Nori felt a stab of pity for the Heir of Durin. Mahal knew his head was harder than bedrock and his pride could be as great as the Mountain, but the Master Thief also knew just how deeply his love for Dwalin ran through his core. That was the reason they had all been so shocked to hear Dwalin’s account of the meeting in the Treasury. Balin stood, shielding his brother from view. Thorin winced, but it was not unexpected. Fíli and Kíli had wrapped themselves around his Kurdel so tightly they resembled barnacles and the sight brought with it a wave of love for the two rascals who had never questioned his relationship with his guard like so many others. Fíli rose to stand with Balin, glaring at Thorn, but it was Kíli who stepped forth, blocking his path.

  

* * *

 

 

“FALL BACK! Fall back to the barricades! FALL BACK!” Dáin bellowed, moving behind the line of defense they had dug closest to Erebor’s Gate. Once more, the Dwarven shield-wall proved its value, letting the Elven archers regroup in safety as they let loose another volley. A few pockets of fighters lined the ridges stretching either side of the Gates, but the main forces were penned in by the advancing Orcs. Legolas’ flank of archers had gained a position on the mountainside and they were raining down arrows as quickly as they could draw them, but the defenders were in a bind. They were hemmed in on too little space, while the orcs kept coming.

 

* * *

 

“I will not hide behind a wall of stone, while others fight _our_ battles _for us_!” Kíli shouted, pushing Thorin back with a hand to his chest. The dark-haired dwarf stopped, looking at his young nephew. Kíli’s continued rant made him blind to the look in Thorin’s eyes. “It is not in my blood, Thorin,” he finished decisively.

“No, it is not.” Thorin replied calmly, his eyes still searching for Dwalin behind the bodies that shielded him from view. “We are the sons of Durin. And Durin’s folk do not flee from a fight.” He put his hand hesitatingly on Kíli’s shoulder, but the younger Dwarf allowed the familiar touch, gaping at his Uncle’s sudden return. He smiled through tears as Thorin leaned in, pressing his forehead against Kíli’s in the ancient blessing of kin.

“Uncle.” Kíli breathed happily when Thorin let go, but the older Dwarf ignored him in favour of the two behind whom his heart remained hidden.

“Dwalin.” The name wrenched itself loose as Thorin crashed to his knees. Balin remained standing between his younger brother and his oldest friend, but he did not draw his weapon. When Thorin looked up, Balin saw nothing but anguish and pain in his eyes, forcing him to take an involuntary step back. Fíli gaped. Seeing Thorin so raw and vulnerable, but so _himself_ was almost too good to be true. He had not expected to see the soul of his Uncle ever again, and his own heart fluttered with hope.

“What business do you have with my indad, Thorin Thraínul?” Balin’s voice did not shake, nor was it overly loud, but Thorin flinched as if each word was a hammer-blow to his chest. The Company gathered in a circle around the two dwarrow. This was a formal ritual, recognised by all.

“I have come before you, Balin Fundinul, to beg your leave to speak once more with Dwalin Fundinul ere I go to war, that I might mend what I have broken. I offer you my braids and my beard for my dishonourable actions, though I can never earn your forgiveness.” Thorin managed to keep his head up, ignoring the gasps of surprise behind him. Offering your braids to someone was the greatest penance to a Dwarf, for the braids would have to be earned back once cut, and would only be done to atone for the greatest of sins. Attacking your Heart-Song was one of the greatest, surpassed only by acts of kinslaying, for it was an insult to Mahal and Yavanna, his wife, who had given the Dwarrow Heart-Songs so they might know the same joy in companionship as the Maker and the Lifebringer. Behind Balin, Dwalin stood slowly, leaning on Kíli’s shoulder. Fíli stepped forwards, to stand by Balin.

“Uncle. Are you… yourself, again?” he asked, quietly.

“I think, Fíli, that I am more Thorin Oakenshield now than I have been since we left Laketown,” Thorin sighed. “What say you, Balin.”

“I say you’re a fool, Thorin Oakenshield.” Thorin winced. “But I will not stand in your way, nor will I demand your braids. If you are to be punished, then let Dwalin decide your penance.” The old dwarf stepped aside, leaving Thorin kneeling before Dwalin.

“ **Gêdel. Ulkhudê ni id-‘uznan. Shagamrukmi.** **Burushrukmi igbulul e tada mahkherekhmi astû.** **Zâgbiri ibriz khama astû, amrâlimê. Altun amê. **[165]**”** Thorin did not truly expect forgiveness, and simply let his eyes feast on the sight of his One, decked out for battle and looking like the epitome of all that is Dwarf. His heart beat quickly.

Dwalin’s eyes roamed across the kneeling form of his King, trying to see the return of his beloved’s mind. He almost did not dare to look at Thorin’s eyes, for fear it would not be Thorin staring back at him, but the blue eyes blazed only with love, marred by shame. Dwalin could breathe again.

“ **Binazrâm hu tada taglibi 'aimu-galikh kuthu tharkh tadishi. Amrâl tada belkul ma jalatena, khalâf buzrâ ma rakarôn mi makallul. Astû Ukmath _-_ mudtulê. **[166]**”** Dwalin rumbled, holding out a hand to help his beloved to his feet. Forgiveness could be considered later; for now, love was all he needed to say.

“ **Zanâbhki gagin**[167]?” Thorin asked, getting to his feet. He looked at the assembled Company. “I am unworthy. But will you follow me, one last time?”

They nodded, taking up their weapons once more.

 

**< h6>notes:</h6>**

 

[159] War is coming!

[160] I said: STAND DOWN!

[161] Be prepared for battle!

[162] Get ready to shoot!

[163] Bead of binding contact.

[164] Supreme anvil of joy – Dwalin’s inner name, Thorin’s is Uthran mamahdûn – blessed darer.

[165] Joy of all joys. My light in darkness. I apologise. It pains me greatly that I hurt you. I would melt the sun in my forge for you, my love. Forgive me.

[166] Faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens. The love that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost. You are my Heart-Song.

[167] Will we fight together again?


	26. War and Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A well-timed charge, and a small strike-force attacks Ravenhill.

At Ravenhill, Azog smiled in grim satisfaction. “Now comes the end. Prepare for attack!” he roared, even as a Goblin hurried to obey the order by blowing on his shrill horn. On the plain below, the Orcs reformed their ranks, flanked by a few massive trolls that had been returned from the pointless attack on Dale. The Orcs had attempted to fire the city ruins, but with no greater success, for anything flammable had already perished in Smaug’s initial waves of fire.

“SOUND THE ATTACK!”

 

* * *

 

 

The horn blow that was meant to spell their doom received an answer from within the mountain. Bombur, using his powerful lungs, was blowing out his defiance. Below him, the defenders of the Gate looked up, just as shocked as the Orcs before them. The Orcs’ momentum halted in their confusion.

When the great bell burst through the barricade, it sounded a deafening clarion call across the battlefield. In the temporary lull of sound before the next stroke of the massive gong would fall, a rallying cry went up.

“TO THE KING!”

Followed immediately by the bellowing of powerful lungs and the time-honoured war-cry of the Dwarrow: “ **DU BEKAR! BARUK KHAZÂD! KHAZÂD AI-MENU!** ”

The Company charged. Dáin’s troops followed on their heels, a spear through the ranks of the orcs. Elven bows twanged, using the charge to clear the field with another volley of arrows from behind their Dwarven allies.

 

* * *

 

 

Above them, Azog did not gape in incredulity, but only because it was not among the emotions his dark creator had permitted his kind to possess.

 

* * *

 

“Cousin! What took you so long?!” Dáin bellowed, riding up on his blood-spattered ram. Beside him sat Rhonith, atop an armoured elk.

“Dáin! Enjoying the day?” Thorin grinned, bloodlust surging through his veins as Orcrist bit into the neck of an orc. Dwalin bellowed defiance as he swung his massive axes.

“Aye, Cousin. Tis always a fine day to smash some orc skulls,” Dáin shouted, doing exactly that. Chaos surged around them. Rhonith had obtained a warhammer somewhere, in replacement for the blade she had lost and her face was liberally smeared with black blood.

“Thorin!” she smiled, “Glad you could make it.” Her elk reared, stomping down with dainty hooves that easily crushed an orc’s skull. Thorin blinked. Was that…?

“Aye, cousin. Seems yon Elvenking thinks that mounted cavalry means mounting diamond tipped steel shoes on his elks…” Dáin deadpanned, but the grin on his face made Thorin think that the next time he saw his cousin, Dáin’s mount would also be sporting sharp diamond soles.

“Oh, that was Hanar’s idea,” Rhonith said breezily as Dwalin beheaded a goblin. “It takes a while to train them, but they are fierce in battle. Really you wouldn’t think an elk would be an appropriate war mount, but… well, it’s worked out so far.” She patted her mount’s foam-flecked neck, “This is Aithiel.”

As if to prove her right, Thorin spotted the massive elk Thranduil rode, trampling four Orcs at once, while its massive antlers picked up another charging group, lifting them high over his head and letting the Elvenking’s sharp sword slice cleanly through their necks. When the elk shook his head, dislodging the orcs once more, slinging the corpses into their oncoming brethren, Thorin realised that the elk’s antlers had been reinforced with steel tips too. A wry thought for his non-royal grandfather’s own version of madness made him smile slightly. Hanar had been inarguably brilliant, even if some of his ideas had been right at the edge of usefulness. Thorin would never forget his grandfather’s idea of an appropriate Nameday gift for a precocious four-year-old dwarfling: an automated rocking horse controlled by a clockwork mechanism so intricate that Thorin had been unable to wind up the horse on his own. Instead, it required the use of a comically oversized wrench – which the mischievous dwarfling he had been then had instantly re-appropriated as a tool for scaring the laundry maids – but once wound up, Thorin’s small, almost life-like pony had been able to gallop for almost an hour. It had not been able to stop, but Hanar had just looked at Frís as though he could not understand why she would want it to, when his exasperated daughter had complained. Thorin had not slept for four days after he had first tried his new toy, too busy replaying ancient battles with himself as the brave general. Frís had not been happy. Thorin could definitely see Hanar’s mark all over the idea of diamond-soled elk. He idly wondered how much each armour set would have cost, but the battle surrounding him quickly whipped his fond musings aside as he swiftly beheaded a Goblin mounted on another Goblin. With a scornful snort, he swung Orcrist once more, decapitating the mount-Goblin too. He could see Dwalin’s face, contorted in a wild snarl as his Kurdel laid down their enemies with brutal efficiency. A shiver of lust passed through his body, but he ruthlessly squashed the impulse. Now was not the time.

 

* * *

 

 

“Thorin! Azog is at Raven Hill, those banners are directing his forces!” Fíli shouted, running up to them with Kíli, whose bow was still on his back and whose sword ran black with blood already. The two Heirs had been separated from the main Dwarven forces during their mad charge, instead ending up near a trio of Elves. They had recognised Faindirn, but had no time for more than a short nod in greeting before the next wave of attackers were upon them. It was the Elf’s far-scouting eyes that had spotted Azog’s hideous form atop the Tower. The Orc had stayed behind battlements for most of the morning, leading his troops only through horn signals and flag signs, but he had moved into the open at the sight of the Dwarrow’s charge.

“Then we will finish this. With Azog gone, the orcs will scatter,” Thorin said, capturing the reins of a rider-less battle-ram as it sped by and easily swinging himself into the saddle. Balin rode up, driving a wagon with a mounted crossbow and evil-looking spears on the end of its iron axles. “Balin! Follow me!” with another war-cry, the King set off for Raven Hill. Dwalin cursed, jumping onto the wagon with a final swing of his axe. The young princes joined him and Balin flicked the reins. Behind them, Rhonith kept pace easily on her elk, but Dáin remained on the field.

 

* * *

 

 

The battle was chaos. Bilbo had never seen such chaos. Goblins were everywhere, and his little sword was quickly blooded. He tried to remember Dwalin and Fíli’s long-ago lessons, but he really only followed one philosophy of combat: the pointy end goes in the _other_ guy. He had managed to get separated from Gandalf almost immediately, and the Dwarrow had charged past him in a wagon contraption without seeing him, but in return he had found the Elvenking’s Guard. He remembered the friendly Maglor, who had shown them to their rooms once and decided to stick by him. He was small enough to be missed by most attackers, but he was able to cut through the hamstrings of many an orc, bringing them down and leaving them easy pickings for the stronger fighters around him. When the prince rode up, Bilbo was already tiring, and called out to the elf who swooped down mid-stride and pulled him onto the elk without stopping.

“Master Bilbo, we must hurry to my father. There is a second army coming from Gundabad!” Legolas said, keeping Bilbo in front of him and using his twin blades to cut a swathe through the enemy as he steered with his legs.

 

* * *

 

 

Nori was using every dirty trick he had ever learned. His knives flashed fast and deadly as he tried to be everywhere at once, protecting Dori from harm. The big mithril-haired Dwarf did not need his fierce protector, a capable warrior in his own right, but Dori knew that Nori’s behaviour was an expression of his brother’s love. It was not enough to stop them losing sight of Ori when a massive troll, blind and controlled by a Goblin rider, decided to smash its way in between them. With a loud bellow, Dori’s weapon met the troll’s leg. The monster faltered, enough to allow Nori to climb up the leg and further onto the body, killing the Goblin driver with a savage slash across the throat. Nori bared his teeth, gripping the troll’s reins and trying to steer it away from Dori’s terrified face. The thief managed to get control of his ‘mount’ and turned it on the swarming Orcs with relative ease. The snarl on his face would not have been out of place on the face of an orc as he watched the ensuing carnage. Nori lost count of how many he killed before his troll was overpowered and his knives began flashing silver in the sunlight once more.

 

* * *

 

 

“Legolas!” Thranduil shouted, relieved. He had not seen his son since before Dáin’s charge. “Ionneg, you are well?”

“Fine, Ada, but there is a second army coming. Bolg is leading the forces of Gundabad; they’re attacking from the North!”

“Where is the north?” Bilbo asked, praying the Elves would not give him the answer he feared.

“They’ll be heading for Raven Hill, I imagine.” Thranduil said, calmly slicing through the necks of two goblins with one fell swing of his long sword.

“But that’s where Thorin went!” Bilbo shouted. “And the princes and Fundinsons went with him.” He continued, cringing at the look on Thranduil’s face when he added the final name, “and Ilsamirë went with them…” he petered out, acutely aware of the stiffening of the elf behind him.

“Go, Legolas. They must be warned. Be swift, ionneg, be safe.” The King said, trying not to show them his fear. Father and son exchanged one last long look, before Legolas turned his mount and charged away.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Even for someone whose life’s work occurred in the healers’ tents, battle was sometimes necessary_ , Óin mused as he slashed his way through the battlefield. He was a fair hand with his weapon, but he was no warrior. Trusting his brother’s axe-skills to guard his back from any enemy he did not hear coming, the crabby old healer cut a swathe through their ranks, trying to reach the heavily fortified area he assumed contained the healing tents. They would not see much use until the battle began to ebb, of course, whichever side won, but Óin wanted to be ready when the wounded began pouring in.

 

* * *

 

 

Along the road to Raven Hill, the wagon had picked up Ori, who had somehow lost Dori, but who took over aiming the mounted crossbow with savage glee as Dwalin fired shot after shot against the oncoming horde. Behind them, wargs chased. Kíli had turned to shoot them, but the unsteady terrain made aiming difficult and he missed several shots. The lead warg overtook the wagon, biting at the flank of one of the rams, but Fíli’s sword saved the beast from its untimely end, burying itself in the warg’s skull. He almost lost his handle on the hilt, but the speed of their wagon yanked it from the bone. He cheered. In front of them, up on a slight ridge, Thorin rode onwards, Rhonith beside him. The diamond-studded shoes on her elk sparked off the granite hidden beneath the burned soil of Smaug’s desolation. A few orcs tried to stand in their way, but Orcrist described a perfect arch, glinting in the low winter sun, and easily felled their opposition.

 

* * *

 

 

Bofur did not like war, he decided. This was not by any means a recent revelation, for though he had been too young for Azanulbizar, his father and uncle had not, and their fates – losing a leg and dying – had been the weight on that scale as far as Bofur’s thought processes went. Bombur beside him was swinging his battle ladle, and after having seen first-hand the damage his brother could do with that thing, Bofur had decided to buy Athalrún all the sapphires she could ever desire in thanks for making it for her husband. He did not particularly enjoy the thought that Bombur actually cooked with the ladle, especially after it had smashed into the first orc skull and come away covered in brain matter, but Bofur was willing to concede that it had been useful so far for both purposes. Hopefully Bombur would clean it extra-well before their next meal, however…if there was a next meal. Bofur banished the last thought viciously from his mind. They _would_ live the day, they _would_ defend their new home and they _would_ get to apologise to their littlest friend for all they had failed to do. Bofur’s mattock claimed the life of yet another goblin, even as Bifur’s spear took the life of the one headed for Bombur’s back. Bofur mused idly that Bombur’s girth made a far too tempting target for their enemies. He had already seen one greedy orc tearing into the flesh of a dead dwarf with his teeth. It had not lived long enough to swallow.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m coming with you!” Bilbo was adamant, but the Elven Prince’s refusal was equally vehement, even as he turned their mount towards the Watchtower.

“You are untrained, Master Baggins. By rights you should not be here!” Legolas bit out between clenched teeth. “I should take you to safety.”

“None of us should! But here we are! I’m going! Besides, there is no safety to be found. And don’t you want to save your lady?” Bilbo knew he had won when the elf hissed out a low curse. The elk picked up speed. He had the feeling that he should have been smug about winning, but really, they were going up against Azog, who had scared him more than anyone bar Smaug. Bilbo shuddered. He could still hear the sibilant hisses of the dragon, the desperate shouts of his frie- _companions_ , he corrected himself ruthlessly. Then he corrected himself again because the Company were his friends, dammit! He knew they had not been in their right minds, Thorin especially, and though it hurt, he did not blame them for it. They had tried to stop Thorin from killing him, and Bilbo blamed Smaug and Smaug alone for the greed that had poisoned their hearts.

 

* * *

 

 

When they made it to Raven Hill, it was deserted. The flags of Azog’s standards fluttered weakly in the chill air. The icy stones, withered by time and weather, gave off a cold, unfriendly feeling.

“Split up and search!” Thorin commanded, but Dwalin held back the princes when they wanted to follow their Uncle’s orders. Balin had drawn off the pursuing wargs with his wagon, but Ori was sticking close to Dwalin, wielding his large warhammer with ease.

“I don’t like this, Thorin. Far too easy to ambush someone in a place like this. You and I only barely remember the layout and the lads have never been here.” Dwalin said. Thorin considered his words shortly, but nodded.

“You are right, Dwalin.” And Dwalin could hear the endearment Thorin did not allow himself to utter. “Kíli, pull out your bow. Anything moves, shoot it.”

Kíli nodded, while beside him Rhonith pulled out her elven bow, easily nocking an arrow to the string and straining her ears.

“Hold your breaths… I think I can hear something,” she whispered. The five dwarrow around her stopped breathing. The elleth pointed silently with her arrow. Moving as quickly and quietly as they could across the frozen ground, they managed to take three orcs by surprise, ambushing their would-be ambushers. Dwarven blades and hammers made quick work of the filthy creatures, and Thorin shot the elleth a grateful glance. The group moved on.

 

* * *

 

 

Having defeated the small ambush, Thorin looked anxiously out over the frozen river. The Tower loomed ahead. It seemed abandoned.

“Where is that orc filth?” Dwalin spat. Fíli shrugged, but Kíli looked around apprehensively. “We are so close! That orc scum is in there. I say we push on.” Thorin nodded. They slowly made their way into the tower, straining their ears for any sign of Azog.

 

* * *

 

 

“Kíli!” Fíli screamed, turning just in time to watch his brother fall through the floor behind them.

“I’m okay, Fee!” he shouted back, shaking his head to get the stone dust out of his hair and wincing at the bruised feeling of his shoulder. “It’s too high to climb, I’ll find another way up to you!” he said, setting off in what he thought would be the right direction.

In the corridor above, the dwarrow looked at each other, but they had no time to discuss a plan before orcs were on them. Ori jumped backwards out of the way of an orc’s sword – not that their weapons really deserved the name sword, compared to wonders like Orcrist – and managed to throw himself through the hole Kíli had fallen down. With a loud Khuzdul curse, the small scribe hurried off after Kíli. _At least the prince’s company would be better than staying here alone for the orcs to find,_ he mused. He was reasonably fond of Kíli, but there was no denying that the youngest Durin was a hothead with a penchant for trouble – _practically the opposite of himself_ – the scribe thought wryly as he picked his way slowly among the rubble. A few Goblins crossed his path, but it was what he saw when he finally made it into open air that made his blood run cold: A massive pale orc – Ori thought it might be Bolg, it had the same cruelty burning in its eyes as Azog had on the burning clifftops – was holding Kíli by the hair, bending him backwards over his leg and about to smash Ori’s prince with his giant mace. The Prince’s calf was bleeding sluggishly, the arrow embedded in the muscle shuddering with his breaths. The scribe screamed, all sense forgotten as he charged the vile creature. He managed to land a good blow with his hammer on the orc’s knee, but he could not avoid the mace that came for his face. Ori twisted in mid-air, making the massive weapon smash into his side instead, flinging him across the floor with a scream that was abruptly cut off by his head meeting the parapet.

 

Kíli screamed in fury. Using Bolg’s distraction with Ori to his advantage, the young prince managed to pull a knife from his boot, and with a mighty yank of his head and a hard slash of the blade upwards, he managed to cut through his own hair and embed the blade in Bolg’s arm. Kíli rolled away, freed from the Orc’s deadly grip. Bolg tossed away his handful of braids and dark locks in disgust, drawing back his mace once more. Kíli regained his fallen sword, coming to stand in front of Ori’s still form. The Orc advanced, grinning maliciously. Kíli had nowhere to run, a steep drop on one side and a stone-wall on the other. Behind him lay Ori, and if he was still alive, Kíli would give his very best to see that the scribe remained so. The tip of his sword trembled slightly.

 

* * *

 

 

“There!” Fíli pointed with his sword, running off down a side corridor, Rhonith hot on his heels. An ominous rumble followed, and before any of the other two could follow, the roof of the corridor caved in, dropping five Goblins almost on top of them. Thorin cursed loudly. Even once the Goblins were dead, there was no way to get to Fíli, they had to keep moving up. Suddenly, Bilbo appeared behind them, out of breath and pale with fear. His small sword held in front of him, glowing blue with its warning.

“Thorin…”

“Bilbo!” the Dwarf-King gaped, but a cautious smile was crinkling his eyes. “I’m s-“

“You have to leave here!” Bilbo interrupted, panic making his voice loud and squeaky, “Now! Azog has another army attacking from the north. This watchtower will be completely surrounded. There’ll be no way out.” The Hobbit kept his distance, and the way he stuck close to the wall, rather than move to be near Thorin or Dwalin spoke volumes to the Dwarf-King.

“ **Kalluh shalm!**[168]” Dwalin spat. Thorin silently agreed with his analysis. They were spread out over the tower, Fíli either alone or with Rhonith if she had not been caught by the falling stones, and Kíli probably with Ori, but they had no way of contacting any of them. “We can’t leave without the boys,” he said quietly. “We must press on.”

“No! That’s what he wants. He wants to draw us in.” Thorin exclaimed. Bilbo nodded, still trying to regain his breath. Thorin stared towards the ceiling, a terrible certainty filling his bones. Alarmed, he looked a Dwalin, who nodded grimly; he had come to the same conclusion. “This is a trap!”

 

* * *

 

 

Rhonith ran, dodging falling stone and trying to keep up with Fíli, but the Dwarf had an easier time of the run, and made it to the end of the corridor and up a set of stairs, just in time for another small rockfall to cut him off from her. What had once been a small aperture for the birds to fly through or for the watch to look out was now a gaping hole in the wall, but the elleth had no choice. Cursing the mother of all Orcs, she grabbed the first handhold she could find, beginning to climb to outside of the tower. She could hear Azog’s roar above her, intermingled with Fíli’s scream. Determined not to look down at the steep drop below her feet, Rhonith climbed on.

 

* * *

 

 

Drums sounded atop Ravenhill. Thorin blinked as the three made it out into the light. They had found a ledge that had been a room before its walls collapsed, but there was no way to get further upwards. Thorin turned rapidly, sword at the ready as he surveyed his surroundings. Then he gasped. Atop the tower, Azog appeared, dragging a bloodied Fíli behind him. The Orc grinned maliciously, pointing at Thorin and growling in his own tongue.

“ **Alag mat** ,” he pointed at Fíli, who whimpered. Azog’s grin widened. “ **Kalus-vok mat** ,” he said, pointing off to a small ledge below them where Kíli was fighting Bolg. “ **Skut-dushak-vok matub jundaut![169]** ” Azog roared. Thorin paled, staring at the golden hair of his nephew, starkly reminded of another golden-haired youngster who had died in battle so long ago against this very Orc. He growled.

“No! Thorin! RUN!” Fíli cried loudly, his words cut off abruptly when Azog grabbed him by the throat, dangling him over the abyss.

The archer was distracted by his brother’s shout, and only barely managed to kill the Goblin that had appeared behind him; it managed to shoot him in the leg. Kíli screamed.

“ **Durin-bauri-vokrim glob mubaramub!** ” Azog bellowed defiantly, raising the arm with its embedded sword. Fíli could only stare down, his blue eyes burning themselves into Thorin’s as the King watched his nephew’s execution helplessly. Dwalin’s knuckles were white with his grip on his axes, and Bilbo’s lips were thinned so far they were entirely bloodless. Azog’s arm fell.

“ **Azog! Mabrotnoshob Azog kurvan ulogim, Azog baur skraefa!**[170]” Rhonith screamed, when she climbed over the edge of the tower’s breastworks and saw the spectacle in front of her. The scream was senseless to the dwarrow around her, but it made the Pale Orc falter for just long enough to let Fíli twist away from his blade. The Orc snarled. The elleth loosed her last arrow, finding its mark in Azog’s muscular shoulder. The Orc roared, tossing Fíli hard away from him, dropping the young dwarf over the edge of the ledge. Fíli’s fearful scream cut off abruptly.

“Fíli!” Thorin screamed, but Dwalin stopped him throwing himself after his nephew. Azog shot the Dwarrow a hate-filled grin before whirling around.

“ **Lat ta-folunan Uruk-gujab?!** ” Azog roared. “ **Lulgijak kurv!** **Lat matub nab hanhar mabas shakutarbik!**[171]” he laughed. He turned, breaking off the arrow shaft stuck in his meaty flesh with a grunt and tossing it aside. Rhonith ran, passing the Orc narrowly and making her way back inside the tower. Azog snarled, jumping carelessly off the top of the tower and landing heavily before Thorin. His attacks were swift and powerful, and the two Dwarrow were forced back, eventually reaching the side of the tower where the fallen walls of the upper chamber formed an uneven slope towards the ground. It was precarious footing under the best of circumstances, and the ice and snow of the last few weeks made it even more hazardous. Neither could later remember how they had made it down to solid ground without falling, but suddenly the King and his Guard were back on the hard stone of the ridge, their backs to the iced-over river. Dwalin was momentarily distracted by a band of Orcs coming up from behind them, and did not notice that he was being herded away from his King by inches until they were separated by enough space for the Orcs to wedge through. Azog’s roars mixed with Thorin’s bellows as their weapons clashed.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo wanted to scream when he saw Azog land before Thorin, but the sound was cut off abruptly by the Orcs coming through the door behind him and knocking him over. Bilbo’s last view before the blackness descended was of Orcrist glimmering in a ray of sunlight and Thorin’s fierce blue eyes as the King attacked his mortal foe.

 

* * *

 

 

When she reached the lower level, she felt a moment of surprised relief. Fíli had fallen onto a ledge jutting out below Azog’s platform, rather than off the cliff. The dwarf had a broken leg, and the side of his face was covered in blood. She fell to her knees beside the wounded prince.

“Fíli! Oh, Eru, Fíli!” reaching for his neck, Rhonith almost sobbed when she found his pulse. It was weak and slightly thready, but it was still there. Tears rolled slowly down her face. Fíli was unconscious, but groaned in pain she jostled his leg. His face had taken the blunt impact of Azog’s fist or some other weapon, which seemed to have shattered his cheekbone as well as his eye-socket. The eye underneath his closed lid had a sunken in look, and Rhonith knew it had ruptured with the force of the blow. She could do little for it in the field, but if he was going to walk again, the leg needed setting fast. Dwarf bones mended quickly, but that could be both a curse and a blessing. Because of their compact stature, their bones took considerable force to set, as the muscles were tough and resistant to force. Blowing out her breath in a huff, Rhonith gripped Fíli’s ankle. Praying to the Maker that he would remain unconscious, she braced her legs and gave the limb a hard pull. The bone realigned with a nasty sound. Fíli screamed. Rhonith threw herself backwards, just in time to avoid the knife-punch combination heading for her face. “Mahal, Fíli, it’s me!”

“Amad..?” the prince mumbled, before his remaining eye rolled back and he was unconscious once more. Rhonith cursed. She did not want to leave Thorin and Dwalin alone to fight Azog, but she did not want to leave Fíli either. Her quick hands created an impromptu splint for Fíli’s leg, using a few arrows and some strips of torn cloth, but she could only try to keep his face from getting infected with the medicines she carried. The shattered socket and fractured cheekbone would need to be laid open and realigned before Fíli’s face could be stitched up. With a harsh curse in Khuzdul on her lips, she dragged the unconscious Prince further underneath the overhang, creating a sort of padded shelter for him with her cloak. Pulling a small blade from her bag of field medicine, she spoke a swift prayer of healing she had learned at her father’s knee. Bending to her work, Rhonith allowed all the desire to heal that she felt to fill her, making the first cut. As she worked, she sang softly, trying to infuse the very air with the spirit of healing and protection from harm. Rhonith did not have Luthien’s powerful gift for healing, nor could she compare to the likes of Lord Elrond, but she had studied more than enough to do well by Fíli. Underneath the skin and muscle, Fíli’s bones were less impacted than she had feared, though more damaged than she would have hoped and Rhonith cursed once more, before trying to move the larger pieces into realignment. There were no shards of bone, and she felt thankful for the sturdier Dwarf-bones than she had when she had to set the Prince’s leg. Washing the wound with an athelas-based potion of Elrond’s making, trying to ensure that no grit or dirt remained, Rhonith swiftly threaded a needle. Another look at Fíli reassured her that the young dwarf was still unconscious, and she hoped he would remain so until she was done. She pressed the edges of the wound together, trying to make it as even as she could, even as she had to hurry. She had no boiling water and only dried leaves of athelas and lissuin, but Rhonith crumbled up the cleansing herbs in her palm either way. A splash of miruvor from her cleverly concealed flask turned the herb into a paste, and she smeared it liberally across the fresh sutures. The smell was not as pungent as when the herbs were fresh, but Fíli’s face relaxed minutely under its numbing influence anyway, and the elleth breathed a soft sigh of relief. Another pad of bandaging material was affixed to Fíli’s face, covering his eye and his cheek and keeping the herbal paste in place. Rhonith bent slowly, pressing a kiss against Fíli’s brow and suffusing the small act with all the fondness and joy she felt for the young prince, speeding the healing process as much as she could with a small push from her own fëa.

 

She allowed herself one last look back, before she turned, striding determinedly through the ruined hallways. As she loped gracefully along the withered stonework, a fervent prayer fell from her lips.

 

 

######  notes: 

[168] Origins of muck! (aka shite!)

[169] That dies. Archer-dwarf dies. Shield-oak-dwarf will die last! Durin-sons-Dwarrow filth will end!

[170] Azog! Your queen fucks cripples, your son is a coward!

[171] You speak Orc-tongue?! Elf-whore! You will die on my sword after the dwarf!


	27. Aid and Farewells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate struggles, and taking a last stand against the oncoming storm.

Legolas was getting desperate. When they arrived at Ravenhill, he could not see any of the Dwarrow, nor the taller figure of Rhonith. He and Bilbo split up soon after arriving, as Bilbo made his way towards the sound of Thorin’s defiant roars and Dwalin’s powerful bellows. Legolas instead turned to head for the single female scream coming from somewhere near the middle of the tower. As he made his way across what had once been a covered bridge and which was now a death trap hanging a hundred feet above a frozen waterfall, he could hear the sound of an Orc roaring as well as the Dwarrow’s ubiquitous war cry. Rhonith has once – laughingly – explained to him that instead of calling for the aid of a higher power, or using the names of well-known heroes to bolster their spirits like elves did, Dwarrow simply wanted to be direct and impolite. Their cry, ‘Axes of the Dwarrow, the Dwarrow are upon you!’ was meant to be both warning and prophecy, and it was the only Khuzdul phrase they easily used around outsiders. When he heard her voice, gravelly and rough, he at first believed she was speaking Khuzdul, but as she continued, he realised that he felt an almost superimposed dread fill him at her words. He had an idea where she had picked up Black Speech, for her words were clearly those of the foul language of Mordor – just as the ones she had uttered on the night they had visited Mithrandir’s sickbed – but Legolas did not truly want to know. He shuddered involuntarily at the sound, picking up speed, even as his steps stayed light and careful on the frozen stones. Above him, massive bats swarmed, darkening the sky.

  

* * *

 

 

“Bolg!” she screamed, coming down an unsteadily mortared stairway and seeing the large Orc facing Kíli. The younger prince was holding his own, but the arrow in his leg made his footwork sluggish, and he could not move far to either side without exposing the still unconscious Ori. Kíli spotted a shallow cut over his eye, which dripped blood down his face that he had to keep blinking away, but apart from those two and a few other minor cuts, Kíli seemed uninjured. “ **ZANBAUR! Vrasub lat! Pau-ub blog-ob Bolg! Marzgiub lat sma viz!**[172]” she kept hurling insults at him, cursing her lack of arrows, but the distraction bought Kíli another decent hit against Bolg’s arm. Kíli’s gaping at her for the words she used proved to be dangerous for the short archer, however, and he was knocked away by a powerful swing of Bolg’s mace. The Orc, satisfied that the Dwarf did not get up again, whirled on the elleth, whose use of their language would enrage any Orc who heard it. He fought fiercely, her speed and agility only just managing to keep her from serious harm. Rhonith knew that she could not continue like this indefinitely, but when she spotted Kíli moving with a slight groan, she redoubled her flagging efforts. The last thing she knew was a scream from behind her, before a searing pain in her side caused darkness to descend on her and she knew no more.

 

* * *

 

 

What he saw, when he finally made it across the unsteady bridge, almost stopped Legolas’ heart. Rhonith was fighting a giant Orc, larger than any he had seen before, pale-skinned and evil-looking. _Bolg_. When he watched the jagged blade be driven into her side, he could not contain his scream, and almost without knowing how, he was suddenly locked in desperate combat with the massive Orc. Legolas had agility and speed on his side, as well as the energy he had saved by missing most of the heavier melee fighting. Using every trick in the book, he herded Bolg carefully away from Rhonith’s prone shape, trying not to think about the pool of blood growing underneath her still form. He did not see Kíli get up, yank the arrow out of his leg and tie it off with a tourniquet below the knee.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo woke slowly, alone on the broken Tower. Below him, he could see Thorin and Dwalin, facing off against Azog’s forces. The small Hobbit made his way towards the edge of the stone unsteadily, but as his head cleared, his fury increased. Brandishing his small sword once more, Bilbo Baggins carefully climbed down the unsteady pile of rocks that leaned against the tower, unknowingly following in Thorin’s footsteps and arriving at the bottom just in time to plunge his sword into the unprotected back of an Orc attacking Dwalin. The Orc fell, the sword leaving its corpse with a wet sound of parting flesh that Bilbo had not noticed in his earlier skirmishes. He stared at his hand. His nails were encrusted with blood, and his hands filthy. His jacket could not even be made into cleaning rags, and he suddenly felt an overwhelming wave of longing for Bag End, where the only dirt he had to combat was a spot of mud now and then and the only enemies he had to worry over were the insects trying to steal his prize tomatoes. The light reflected in the Orc’s blood, dark against the blue blade.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin was using every available ounce of his skill to fight Azog. Hatred and anger ran red-hot through him, making him lost in the red haze of battle-fury. He slowly forced the Orc onto the frozen river. On the bank, Bilbo could only stare as the giant bats flew overhead. Dwalin roared, axes flashing down and biting into the back of an Orc heading for the untrained Hobbit.

“Bilbo! Wake up!” he growled, pushing the smaller creature behind him and falling into his defensive stance. Until the Burglar was safe, he would not leave him. Thorin would want the chance to apologise to the wee lad, and Dwalin would ensure that he had that chance. His Kurdel was strong, and he could handle Azog for a time, until Dwalin had dispatched the filth standing in his way. A rock flew over his shoulder, flung by Bilbo, who had surprisingly accurate aim and a strong throw for someone so small, Dwalin noted, taking advantage of the rocks that kept braining his enemies.

 

* * *

 

 

Azog grinned. He had the Dwarf Oakenshield right where he wanted him. That cunt of an elf had interrupted his plans, and for that she would die, just as soon as his current business was ended.

“ **You will die, Dwarf** ,” he snarled, dodging a fast swing and growling when the small creature avoided his arm once again. It was certainly quick on its feet, far quicker than the first King of Dwarrow his Father had killed. That Orc had died in the Glorious Battle, and Azog had taken his father’s name and continued his oath. “ **The utter destruction of the Line of Durin,** ” he spat, the Dwarf’s sword only just managing to block his wicked blade. “ **Is near.** ” That way, the prophecy could never come to pass and the time of the Orcs would be hastened. Azog didn’t care that the Dwarf did not understand him, his roars of pure rage were sweet music to the Orc. The Dwarf snarled something in his own tongue, but Azog did not care as he kept pressing his height advantage. Suddenly the Dwarf executed a move that was almost too fast for Azog to follow, and in a single moment of imbalance, he was knocked down and tumbled down the slope of the ridge. Azog laughed, getting to his feet on the frozen river as he watched the Dwarf jump down after him. Blood dotted the snow. “ **Mubaram ta! **[173]**** ” he roared, not bothering to watch the forces atop the ridge follow his orders. Azog’s eyes stayed locked on his opponent. “ **Go for the kill,** ” he grinned, watching a few Orcs split off from the main group and heading down the slope towards the Durin on the ice.

 

* * *

 

 

Legolas fought like a whirlwind. He had never before appreciated how much he looked like his father, but if Thranduil had seen his youngest son in this battle for his life as well as his love, the Elvenking would have recognised the skill that had earned him the name Hwiniedir, so many years before. His bow remained on his back, his quiver still holding five arrows, but he did not have the space to draw it. He had to keep jumping back across the same ‘bridge’ he had used to get to Rhonith, avoiding Bolg’s heavy, spiked mace and trying to return his attacks with swings of his own swords. His feet, so sure in the trees and branches of his home, were sliding on the icy stones, leaving him precariously unbalanced. Bolg’s heavy mace smashed into the stonework, making several feet of the bridge crumble into the valley below. The Orc smiled, a dark and sinister thing, and repeated the move. Legolas could not stop him destroying their battleground hit by hit; only try to attempt to stay on the stones that were yet safe. He moved further backwards, tossing a constant stream of Silvan insults at the grinning Orc. Eventually, he reached a part of the covered bridge that was open to the air above rather than below him and Legolas took his chance. With a move he had practised a million times, he jumped, flipping in mid-air and, kicking off the wall of rubble to his left, launching himself into the air above Bolg. The elf landed, lithely, but precariously, on Bolg’s back. Legolas raised his swords, but the Orc was cleverer than most of its counterparts and managed to get a fist around his wrist. With a snarl, Bolg yanked Legolas from his back – but not before the prince had stabbed one of his blades deeply into the Orc’s back. Bolg roared wildly. Wrenching himself free, Legolas jumped back, but the flailing of Bolg’s arms had apparently hit a structural weakness, and the stones already removed by his mace had not helped the integrity of the floor. With a loud rumble, more stones began to fall. The pale Orc staggered, falling to one knee. He swiped at Legolas, but the attack was almost listless, wavering unsteadily and with no real force behind it. Bolg snarled weakly, anger burning in his eyes. Legolas snarled back, brandishing his second sword. Bolg climbed to his feet unsteadily, but the floor beneath him crumbled, just as his eyes rolled back into his head. With a final groan of stone against stone, the floor gave way, and Bolg plummeted through the air, crashing into the frozen water. Jumping from crumbling stonework to crumbling stonework, Legolas almost danced his way backwards, trying to outrun the collapse of the ‘bridge’. With a final, massive leap, he made it to the other side, ending on a smaller ledge about a third from the top of the waterfall. With a curse, he watched the last pieces of stone crash down onto the ice, burying Bolg’s corpse beneath them.

 

* * *

 

 

She awoke with a groan. Across from her, Kíli was fretting over the laboured breathing of the unconscious Ori, though he kept shooting her worried glances. Rhonith tried to give him a shaky smile when he turned around, and the young Dwarf breathed an audible sigh of relief. She could see the shadows of grief in his eyes.

“Fíli…” he began, breath hitching. The alarm he saw on her face made him begin crying for real, and Rhonith scrambled to find enough breath to wheeze out the words he needed to hear.

“ **Kuyula, Rayad-dehar**[174].” She mumbled, but she knew he had heard her when his tears stopped. The smile that spread across his face was almost blinding and she could not help but smile in return. Taking stock of her own wounds, she winced. Her side was on fire, where Bolg’s serrated blade had cut her up, and she was sticky with blood. Kíli had tried to bandage her as best he could, sacrificing his own tunic between her and Ori. Rhonith sat slowly, her breathing heavy. Kíli looked flustered, torn between helping her and making her lie back down. “ **Astu** **mabarshûn**[175]?”

“ **Ikhrâkh**[176],” he replied, gesturing to the arrow wound on his calf. The arrow had managed to pierce through his flesh just above his boot. “ **Ori mabarshûn ziznal**[177].”

“ **Ihlit astu du id-ubsât **[178]****.” Rhonith tried to shout, but Kíli kept looking indecisively between her and Ori.

“ **Ini Irak’adad** …” Kíli tried, but Rhonith did not give him time to finish his sentence.

“ **Zamakhahmi hû**.” They could hear the distant sounds of battle. Rhonith got to her feet with a wince, reaching out to take Kíli’s half-empty quiver of arrows. “ **Ignig! MILMAL!! **[179]**** ” she shooed him away, and with a nod and a final glance back, the younger prince hoisted up the scribe and began making his way down from the ridge.

  

* * *

 

Thorin could only stare, knowing that his death was swiftly approaching. Dwalin was somewhere above and behind him, while Azog’s reinforcements were gaining ground on him quickly. The ice beneath him groaned ominously, but held. The Dwarf-King took his stance, facing the oncoming Orcs fearlessly. He did not wish to die on this day, but he had no fear of it either. It would grieve him to leave behind his nephews, his sister and his Company, to say nothing of the raw wound abandoning his Dwalin would deal him, but Thorin’s mind was his own, and he could walk into the Halls of Waiting with his head held high, no longer shaming his forebears. He grinned, and if the Orcs had been close enough to see it and capable of feeling fear, they might have fled for their lives. Thorin would sell his own dearly, and with another bellow of ‘Du Bekar!’ he met the first attacker head on.

 

* * *

 

With a groan, Rhonith began moving once more, picking up her bow almost absentmindedly and tying the quiver to her belt. Making her way across the tower plateau, she had the perfect view across the frozen river.

* * *

 

The arrows were unexpected, but Thorin did not have time to look for the origin of this aerial aid. Orcrist lived up to its name, biting into the necks and bodies of his enemies, even as the lone archer kept thinning their ranks. Thorin’s grin grew wider, the haze of bloodlust settling across his field of vision. He did not feel the smaller injuries he had already received, focusing only on the next swing or parry, the next attack or block. When the smaller Orcs were all dead around him, many thanks to his benefactor from above, Thorin turned back to face their pale leader. Azog’s snarl seemed affixed to his face, but Thorin paid the Orc’s face no mind, concentrating on using any and all moves he had ever learned with a sword to bring down his mighty foe.

It was not enough.

 

* * *

 

 

When she saw Thorin fall, his legs swept out underneath him, Rhonith would have screamed, but she did not have the breath. Instead, her sound of dismay was little more than a wheeze as she scrambled for one more arrow. She found none in Kíli’s quiver, her shafts all spent on the Orcs Thorin had been fighting earlier. With a whimper, she fell to her knees, convinced she was about to watch Azog kill her King – for he _was_ the King, as she had told Thranduil – and beneath her, the chill of the frozen stones seemed to seep into her bones. Under one knee, she felt something different, however. A single arrow, blackened and badly crafted, but an arrow nonetheless, the one Kíli had yanked from his leg earlier. Numb fingers could barely grasp the slickened shaft, and her aim was no longer steady as her vision became shrouded in black. Her last sight, before the darkness claimed her, was Azog’s triumphant form, mace raised to stab Thorin in the chest while he held the Dwarf down with his arm-sword.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin lay there, looking at his death. He knew it was only a matter of time. He had Orcrist’s blade locked with that of Azog’s arm-blade, but he could feel his strength waning. The rage and terror that had filled him during the battle seemed to have used all his energy. He could no longer hear Dwalin fighting, and the thought that his One might have perished almost made him give up his grip on Orcrist’s blunt edge. Above him, Azog grinned triumphantly. He too knew what the outcome of their deadlock would be. With a final unspoken prayer to the maker, Thorin slid Orcrist out from underneath Azog’s sword, stabbing it into the Pale Orc’s chest. He had avenged his grandfather.

 

* * *

 

From the bank of the frozen river, Dwalin screamed, even as he knew he would be too late to help Thorin. The warrior, hardened by so many battles, could only stand and watch as his One was held down by the massive Orc.

 

* * *

 

Legolas found his way up the steep slopes of the Raven Ridge, but what he saw when he reached the river made his blood run cold. On the ice, two figures were locked in stalemate, but the Elf hardly registered the battle, his eyes locked on the swaying form of Rhonith standing in the ruins of the tower, holding her bow shakily. He began to run.

 

* * *

 

 

The arrow flew. It was not her best shot by far, in any respect, but the meaty thud it made when it lodged itself in Azog’s shoulder made it the most important one. The Orc roared in pain, moving his arm a fraction.

 

* * *

 

 

Orcrist rose. Fulfilling the wishes of its long-ago maker, the beautiful Gondolin sword bit into Azog’s chest, his black blood running down the keen edge.

 

* * *

 

 

The pain of the sword piercing his flesh was immense. Thorin tried to scream, but the sound was lost in a wheezy breath as Azog’s headless form collapsed on top of him. Black spots danced before his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Legolas ran. Later, he would not remember the look on Dwalin’s face, nor the awed expression on Bilbo’s. He would not remember the feeling of Hanar’s blade cutting off the head of Azog, the would-be killer of the Dwarf’s grandson. Later, they would tell him that it was a thing of beauty, but at the time, Azog was merely an obstacle on his way to the crumpling form of his love. Her tunic, formerly forest green, was stained a vivid crimson, and though he could see rudimentary bandages wrapping her injured side, they had done little to staunch the flow of her blood. Legolas ran, a continuous prayer falling from his lips, though he did not know which deity he was beseeching.

 

* * *

 

Dwalin could only look on in shock, while beside him, Bilbo gaped at the sight of the Elven Prince decapitating their old enemy. Suddenly, his eyes were caught by something else, shapes in the air. The sky had been swarming with werebats, blocking out the sun, but now shafts of sunlight were coming through. The Eagles of Manwë, with Radagast riding their leader, swooped down. They sailed through the ranks of the oncoming orc reinforcements from Gundabad, decimating them. The screeching bats tried to evade their far bigger predators, but the Eagles were merciless. Beorn, riding atop one of the Eagles, threw himself off it and transformed into a bear as he fell to the ground, landing in full massive bear form right in the middle of the orcs. His roars echoed across the battlefield, his revenge finally complete. Dwalin regained control of his legs, running full-tilt across the uneven slope, Bilbo hot on his heels. His soul screamed.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo fell to his knees beside the king. Dwalin’s attention was taken with bandaging Thorin’s mangled shoulder, trying to stem the blood loss, but the King’s face was turned towards the Hobbit.

“Bilbo…” Thorin smiled shakily, trying to reach the Hobbit’s slim shoulder. His hand fluttered weakly against his side. With an oath, Dwalin ripped up the last of his own tunic, starting on Thorin’s bottom hems for bandage material.

“Don’t move! Don’t move! Lie still!” Bilbo exclaimed, examining Thorin’s wound, and looking at Dwalin who ignored him entirely. The warrior’s teeth were bared in a snarl as his hands moved swiftly around Thorin’s injured body and Bilbo recoiled in shock at the gruesome wound. “Oh!” the Hobbit wanted to faint, but he told himself that he had to keep strong for Thorin’s sake if nothing else. The King seemed unaware of Dwalin’s actions, his blue eyes locked on Bilbo’s dirty face.

“I’m glad you’re here…” Thorin’s face was bloodless and pale, but he tried to smile with blood-stained teeth. Bilbo winced.

“Shh.” He hushed, looking desperately at Dwalin for guidance. The bald dwarf ignored the Hobbit’s pleading expression and Bilbo turned to face Thorin once more, when the King spoke. Flecks of blood dotted his lips.

“I wish to part from you in friendship.” Thorin whispered. He could feel the darkness encroaching steadily.

“No. You are not going anywhere, Thorin. You’re going to live.” Bilbo claimed fervently. Beside him, Dwalin grunted angrily, pressing his impromptu bandage hard against Thorin’s shoulder.

“I would take back my words and my deeds at the gate. You did what only a true friend would do. Forgive me...I was too blind to see. I’m so sorry that I have led you into such peril.” Thorin’s eyes were closing slowly.

“No, no, I’m glad to have shared in all your perils, Thorin - each and every one of them. And it’s far more than any Baggins deserve.” Bilbo smiled through his tears, answering Thorin’s shaky smile as best he could.

“Farewell, Master Burglar. Go back to your books and your armchair. Plant your trees - watch them grow.” Thorin mumbled. Bilbo had to lean in close to hear the King’s low words. “If more people valued home above gold this world would be a merrier place.” He gasped weakly.

“No! No! No! No! No! No! Thorin! Oh, don’t you dare! Thorin, Thorin, wake up. The eagles...the eagles...” Bilbo wailed. “The eagles are here. Thorin...the eag…” the Hobbit began crying. He wanted to shake Thorin’s unresponsive body, but with another look at the King’s face, slack and eyes closed at last, he stayed his hands.

 

* * *

 

 

Dwalin picked up his One, cradling his battered body against his big chest. With a fervent oath, he got to his feet and began moving back towards Erebor. Bilbo trailed in his wake, still sniffing, but Dwalin remained silent. He did not have the mental capacity to process the Hobbit’s grief while he could feel Thorin’s heart beat slowing under his hands, hands stained with his love’s blood. He wanted to shout, to scream, to rail against the unjust fate that would take Thorin from him when he had only just been returned to his own mind. Instead, Dwalin simply shot down. His mind was occupied with images of battles past, witnessing once more the ghost of Frerin’s last laugh on the young Dwarf’s face after the Orc’s spear had pierced his heart at Azanulbizar. He could see, hear and smell once more that day, the screams of his dying kindred ringing in his ears. He remembered his father’s face, serene in death, as Fundin went to join his beloved Sigrun in the Halls of Waiting. He remembered Frís’ eyes, shuttered with pain and grief when they told her that her golden boy had died. He remembered Thorin’s screams of sorrow, his fervent desire for vengeance that had nearly made Dwalin have to be twice the news of death to his Queen. He remembered swearing to himself that Thorin would not die while he drew breath, and he kept repeating that oath as he walked slowly towards the tents where he would find aid for his King. **_Ai-kayula, Mahal, antihifizu ai-kayula **[180]**._**

 

 

 

[172] Elfson! I will kill you! I will drink [the] blood of Bolg! I will crush you little insect! (Approximately: Orcish grammar is largely non-existent, but they don’t seem to care.)

[173] End him!

[174] He lives, Anvil-heir.

[175] Wounded?

[176] Lesser hurts

[177] Ori was badly wounded.

[178] Take him to the healers.

[179] I will find him. Go! QUICKLY!

[180] Let him live, Mahal, please let him live.


	28. Melancholy and Joy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goings-on in Mirkwood while our intrepid heroes battle madness and Orcs.

Under the boughs of what had once been Greenwood, but which even the most oblivious Elf now had to admit had earned the darker name Mirkwood, the women of Laketown waited for news. A few of their number, notably of those who were not yet mothers, had demanded to come along for the war, but even so, more than 400 Men resided in Thranduil’s Halls after the army had left. Many of them were children, of course, for whom the days were less bleak than they felt to the adults awaiting news. Mostly, the adults spent the days waiting, helping the Elves with whatever they could, keeping their hands busier than their minds could follow. For their part, the remaining Elves did their best to keep their own fears at bay. Among the Silvans, very few had not gone along with their King, and those who remained either had no stomach for wars or were not needed to ensure the smooth running of the armed forces.

The skeleton crew of guards left to protect the palace was still sufficient to defend those inside in case the Orcs decided to swing by, for Thranduil was a conscientious King in his own way. They had been left under the keen eye and command of Magoldir, the brother of Curulhénes and Captain Bronwe’s second in command. The ellon had railed against being left behind, but eventually he had acquiesced to the wisdom of his King’s choice. It had been a choice between himself and Prince Legolas, and Thranduil would never have left his son behind after the last time he went to war. Magoldir did not like the thought of his sister fighting Orcs without him beside her, but the looks he had exchanged with Erfaron before the army left ensured that the mute elf he called brother would let no harm come to her and Magoldir had to content himself with that thought. Curulhénes would never have accepted staying behind when her patrol group went to war, he knew, even if he sometimes wished that she would remain safely weaving the tapestries that had earned her her name. Their grandmother, Nathril, the most skilled weaver in all of the Woodland Realm, had died in an Orc ambush many yén before, and both siblings had vowed to avenge her. Losing her friend Dínelloth only a few weeks before had only increased Curulhénes’ wish for vengeance, worried for the widowed Thalawen, who was showing the early signs of fading in her grief. Instead of dwelling on his fears, for Curulhénes was more than capable of defending herself, Magoldir threw himself into the defence of his home with all his skill. He organized the rosters for their scouting patrols as he always had, and he even began teaching the art of self-defence to some of the women as a way of keeping them busy.

 

* * *

 

In the kitchen, Maeassel’s eldest daughter, Hallothwen, had taken up her mother’s position, and with the military precision and attention to detail she had inherited from both her parents she was a force to be reckoned with.  
The Men of Laketown did not have the skill or experience of her kind, Hallothwen had quickly realised, but they were hard workers, and she could appreciate that. In the Woodland Realm, a lot of dining was done communally, but the Men lived far more separately, she learned, and each woman was used to feeding her own family, perhaps with the help of her children, and could be relied upon to perform most tasks in the kitchens. Among the Silvans, only those who had an inclination towards food-making worked in the kitchens, aside from when scullery duties or other rougher work was assigned as punishments – usually by her father Bronwe, to her mother’s great annoyance and poorly veiled amusement, Hallothwen thought. Everyone knew that while Thranduil might rule the Realm, and Bronwe controlled the Guard, just as Galion controlled the King’s household, it was Maeassel who truly ruled the Halls, and Hallothwen had learned her mother’s ways since birth. The daughter did not take after her mother in her enjoyments, preferring to live in a world of colours and paints, but with the majority of Maeassel’s assistants gone, Hallothwen was the only one left with enough knowledge and power to keep the kitchens running smoothly.

She ruled her subjects well, with the same combination of steely determination and sweetness that had let Maeassel rise from dough-maker to head of the Kitchens and favoured by the King. Even on feast days, when every little thing would be prepared to Maeassel’s exact expectations, the baker would still have her hands covered with flour and a smile on her face when the desserts she had made were served. At the same time, Hallothwen, with her bronze hair and calm grey eyes, was very different to her mother, in that she preferred the task of overseeing workers to being covered in flour. Hallothwen did not mind cooking, but it was not her passion, and outside the kitchens she was usually too shy to make any notice of herself. Hiding Flower was her name, and though some might have thought it cruel to name her daughter so, neither Maeassel nor Hallothwen herself believed that another name might have suited her.

 

* * *

 

In the Healing Halls, Nestor’s domain had been taken over by Iuleth, Nestor’s second apprentice and the midwife of the Woodland Realm, the midwife Anna and those of the Lakewomen who were skilled in herb-lore. They did not expect a great influx of wounded, but those who lost limbs in any battles would need a place to recuperate when they were brought home. What everyone was currently awaiting, and a source of great excitement for most of the Elves, was the birth of Willa’s twins. Anna had told the furrier’s wife that any time after November 1st was a good time for the birth, as with twins she did not expect the full nine months to be feasible.

“I believe Willa will deliver soon,” Anna had said, putting aside her wooden listening rod after examining the heavily pregnant woman. Beside her, Iuleth tilted her head questioningly.

“But you say she must keep the children inside her for nine turns of the moon?” The elleth asked, “A time which, if the time of conception is right, has not yet come to pass. Are the children grown sooner because there are two? We have not had twins born here since before my time.” Anna shook her head.

“No, they’re not fully grown, but twins have less room inside the mother. We usually say that anything after seven is good and if she can keep them in past her 8th month, even better, but it rarely ever happens. If the space gets too cramped, the babes will out.” Anna explained, while Willa nodded contemplatively. Patting her bulging belly, the woman smiled gently.

“Hear that, wee rascals, you have to stay in there as long as you can.”

Iuleth still looked like she did not understand, “But can you not simply tell the babe that it cannot come yet?” placing her hand over Willa’s stomach, the elleth looked for permission to touch. Willa nodded calmly, everyone else had touched her when opportunity arose, why not an elf maiden. Iuleth smiled, placing her hand carefully on the distended skin. Her eyes went slightly hazy as she focused her spirit towards the mortal woman. “Your son is strong,” she murmured, sliding her palm slowly across Willa’s belly. “And your daughter likes to kick him when he moves,” the elleth smiled, “Their _fëar_ are waiting to meet you. I shall tell them to wait a little longer, if they will listen. They are mortals, but perhaps being unborn means I can reach them more easily,” she mused, her hand glowing slightly as she began to chant slowly. “ _In laes en-adaneth, lasto! Dartho nu i hûn emelledh._ _Nidhin dhe nathad galo vilt. Dartho._[181]”

In response, one of the children rubbed its head against the elleth’s hand, which made Iuleth smile softly. Elflings were so rare in this age, she had little opportunity to act as a midwife. The strain of Arda marred touched all her people, and their strength waned as their numbers dwindled. Even her kin, who so rarely felt the touch of Ulmo in their waters, had begun to long for the west, as unthinkable as that notion would have been in bygone ages. Iuleth’s smile was melancholy. They were awaiting the birth of Seregiel’s second elfling before mid- _Echuir_[182], but the elfling would only be the third she had helped into this world in almost a full _yén_.

“If she can make them stay inside you until their proper date, you will give birth only weeks before Yule,” Anna whispered, awed wonder in her voice. She did not know what the elf-maiden had said, but she could see something happening to Willa. When Iuleth removed her palms, Willa retained the soft look that had come over her as the elf sang.

“The fëa – the soul? – ” Iuleth tilted her head and Anna nodded at the explanation, “is far more entwined with our hröar – our bodies – than the fëa housed in mortal flesh,” Iuleth said, smiling at Willa, “among my kind, the mother’s fëa may becalm the child as it grows under her heart, with assistance from healers if necessary, but the mother always knows when the hour of birth approaches. During birth, her fëa interacts with the elfling’s, learning about each other and sharing the purpose of birth. Your mortal healing concerns itself only with treating the hröa, but you do not spend much thought on the inhabiting fëa, for it has little control of its home in regards to the physical processes inside it. It is peculiar to us, but perchance it is better for you…” the healer trailed off, her eyes focused on something only she could see, before she continued gently, “If you keep calm and do not agitate your young, they will both remain in your body,” she replied to Willa’s questions and Anna’s worried expression. “I will guess that they shall remain at least until the moon has completed its turn,” she finished.

“Should I stay abed?” Willa asked, as that was sometimes used among mortal women to encourage a child to remain in the womb a while longer, but Iuleth shook her head.

“No, simply do not overexert yourself. Lifting heavy objects is banned, and you should not kneel to pick up things. Do not let your heart run away in fury or fear, or your children may choose that their arrival is the only way to soothe you.” Beside her, Anna nodded, still concerned, but willing to trust in the elf’s powers for the moment. “If you do feel your labour is oncoming, before the time, three weeks from now, send someone to fetch me and I shall try to hold it off once more.” Picking up Willa – a feat that she made look effortless when it would have been difficult for any of the other women in the room – Iuleth set her gently on her feet. “If you feel overly fatigued, do not hesitate to ask an elf to carry you back to your assigned quarters. My people would be happy to aid you.” With a final smile, Iuleth sent off her helpers for the evening meal, just as the bronze gong sounded, calling for assembly in the dining hall. Ignoring the Gong, Iuleth turned her attention to the unfortunate ellon who had broken his leg earlier that morning during sparring. Elchanar smiled ruefully at her as she went about her work.

 

* * *

 

Magoldir had wrangled the seat beside Hallothwen for dinner. Even though she was the daughter of his commander, he had never spent much time with her, their paths only rarely intersecting. He was far more familiar with her three elder brothers, for the sons of Bronwe were warriors all, and Magoldir had spent many hours in their company, sparring, hunting, and patrolling their great forest. During the first half of dinner, she spoke nothing but a short, almost whispered greeting, and he found it odd that she was so unlike her boisterous brothers. He lamented that he should have chosen such a dull dinner-mate. Beyond that slightly unkind thought, however, he was content to turn his attention to his other side and converse with the sweet harpist Cellingwen. She was almost worse than Hallothwen’s silence, he found, speaking of little other than the husband who had left for war three days earlier. He sighed, but plastered a smile on his face nonetheless as he tried to allay her fears – he didn’t actually remember her husband from the practise fields, so it was more of a general attempt to soothe her fears – and he could tell that Cellingwen did not believe him. By the time dessert arrived, she had managed to turn herself into such a fearful mood that Magoldir could do little but grit his teeth and attempt to snatch bites of his meal between thoughtful hums of encouragement and understated snorts of hastily masked contempt. He shook his head at himself when Cellingwen rose, tears more than threatening and excused herself before nearly running from the hall.

“I think, you could not have granted her peace,” Hallothwen said quietly, almost startling him with her presence. He had clear forgotten about the bronze-haired beauty beside him. She regarded him steadily with her cool grey eyes and Magoldir had to fight not to scream. Hallothwen tilted her head, and he would have sworn she was laughing at him if not for the complete seriousness of her tone. “Cellingwen did not want to be soothed, Lieutenant Magoldir, though I will commend you for the attempt. She has only two loves in life; her harp and Thínion. Her worry for one is keeping her from seeking solace in the love remaining to her in his absence, and I believe I shall send Iuleth along with a sleeping potion later. Even when we were children Cellingwen was strung even tighter than her beloved harp.” Hallothwen trailed off in silence once more, turning her face away from his to gaze once more over the gathered Elves and Men. “So few, so few are left to weather the storm,” she sighed, the quotation from one of his favourite poems surprising Magoldir.

“Return, return, to we who mourn.”

“I did not take you for a scholar of poetry, Lieutenant,” the slight twist of her lips that might have been the beginning of a smile made him feel like had passed some sort of test and Magoldir could not help but grin at her.

“Only some pieces, my lady.” He offered her a courteous bow from his seat, rewarded by laughter lightening her grey eyes though she remained silent.

“I shall bid thee a fair night, Lieutenant.” She said, rising gracefully and moving through one of the side doors that led to the kitchens. Magoldir stared after her, puzzled by the younger elleth. She really was nothing like her siblings, he mused, as he watched her disappear unnoticed by all but his own eyes. Silently, he vowed that he would spend these meals trying to get to know this most elusive elleth, making it a quest of sorts, even if he did not know what reward it might bring. He had a feeling she could be just as fierce a friend as any of her brothers, however, and he felt oddly compelled to discover what lay behind the calm face of the maiden Hidden Flower.

 

* * *

 

 

“You did not wish to go to war, my lady?” Magoldir asked quietly during their evening meal. He had spent a little time in the kitchens earlier, watching Hallothwen act as though she were a general born and the kitchen maids her troops preparing for war.

“My brothers have gone, Lieutenant Magoldir, as have my parents, and my little sister. You think it is foolish of me to remain here, quietly despairing in my wish to hear news of my family?” she replied evenly, no emotional inflection appearing in her words at all.

“Simply making conversation, Lady Hallothwen,” he said, rebuffed by her cool response.

“I wish I had gone,” Cellingwen exclaimed on his other side. “At least I would know whether my Thínion yet lived!” with those words, she began crying once again; it was becoming a common event at dinners, Magoldir feared, handing her a handkerchief. Cellingwen fled, sobbing into the cloth. Magoldir sighed.

“I am the daughter of a warrior and a general, Lieutenant, but my place is not on the field of battle,” Hallothwen said softly. “I should thank you not to imply that I remain out of cowardice.” She got to her feet and was gone before Magoldir could marshal a response; that was not what he had thought at all.

 

* * *

 

 

“I apologise, Lady Hallothwen, if I offended you when last we spoke,” Magoldir said stiffly the next night when the bronze-haired elleth took her seat beside him. He had wondered if she would choose to sit elsewhere after her abrupt departure the night before, which would have bothered him, even if he was glad to see that Cellingwen appeared to have chosen a seat beside one of the lute-players instead of him.

“I accept your apology, Lieutenant.” Hallothwen returned to her food in silence. They spoke no more before she got up to leave for the night and wished him a gentle rest. Magoldir felt rather confused. So far his project of getting to know the daughter of his Captain was not going well.

 

* * *

 

 

“The Laketown kitchen maids claim that you are sweet on me, Lieutenant,” was her next stoic greeting. Magoldir wondered if he had really seen the fleeting smile that crossed her serene features, though his attention was derailed by the serving girl handing him his plate of dinner. Hallothwen thanked the girl pleasantly, before sending her off for another pitcher of apple juice. Tonight’s meal was a goat stew, he could smell, and a fruit compote with soft butter biscuits for dessert.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” he finally ended up admitting, and for the first time he heard her clear laughter ringing across the empty space between them.

“I like that you are so honest with me, Lieutenant.” He somehow felt that the small smile she flashed in his direction was a great reward – especially when he had earned it by being likened to a besotted fool, if he knew the gossipy Lakewomen right.

“Call me Magoldir,” he asked, impulsively. Hallothwen simply smiled enigmatically.

“Perhaps…Lieutenant.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I heard that you had been injured at practise today, Lieutenant,” her greeting made him scowl at his dinner, for which he was already late, as most of the Hall’s occupants were almost done with desserts. The roast pigeon on his place still looked mouth-wateringly delicious.

“How do you make pigeon for so many people?” he wondered, a bit astonished. There were at least four hundred Men left behind, plus their own three hundred Elves. The Woodland Realm was home to almost ten thousand Elves, but Thranduil’s Halls did not house most of them; only about a fifth of their number called the capital home. The rest were spread among the northern trees for the most part, in small village-like dwellings built half on the ground and in the trees.

“The pigeons themselves are simple; we have several large ovens that fit a good fifty birds each. The gravy is trickier, gathering enough stock to make it all taste of the gamy birds is a challenge when we have to use so many pots. We began roasting the birds day before yesterday, Lieutenant. These Lakewomen are quite capable of the tasks of the kitchens, I have no complaints to levy against their desire to work for their food.” Hallothwen smiled kindly at the young Lakewoman whose job it was to serve their table that night, thanking her for refilling her empty goblet. Magoldir just nodded at her, his mouth full of succulent wood-pigeon.

“Well, you have been a credit to your naneth’s realm,” Magoldir said, “We’ve certainly not been lacking in our meals in her absence.”

“It is not my chosen passion as it is hers and Iorineth’s,” Hallothwen said quietly. “I do believe that I am capable of performing the duties required of me, however, Lieutenant.” Magoldir wasn’t sure how he had seemingly managed to offend her again, but she definitely seemed cooler in her words and straighter in posture as she spoke. When she rose to leave him once again, his hand shot out to clamp around her arm. Hallothwen froze.

“What is your passion, my Lady?” he asked softly, before letting her go. She did not look back as she walked away, but Magoldir still felt like he had won this evening.

 

* * *

 

 

“Art, Lieutenant,” Hallothwen said the next night. “I am a painter and a writer of poetry. That is my passion.” Magoldir smiled.

“Would you show me your work?”

 

* * *

 

She had found him early the next morning, pulling him away from the training grounds with a slight gesture, but he knew it had been noticed by the two patrol groups he was ordering out to scout their closest perimeter run.

Walking in silence through the cave network, Hallothwen brought Magoldir to a place he had never before stepped foot in, which surprised him, as he had grown up in the Halls and thought he knew all of its secret nooks.

“This is the Cave of Pictures,” Hallothwen said, moving silently past a few Elves who were already at work with brushes and paints. One of them was capturing a storm through leaves on his canvas, or so it looked to Magoldir, even if it was mostly splotches of green and brown, it had a peculiar sense of movement. “He is Calemir,” she introduced, but the painter did not react to his name being spoken. “He is devoted to Yavannah and all her creations. The next painter, however, made Magoldir stop in his tracks. Not because the picture was particularly good, it was barely even begun, but because the image captured was Hallothwen herself, naked but for a precariously draped length of green silk, which gave the suggestion that it might fall at any moment, baring her flesh to his eyes. Magoldir blushed fiercely. The elleth in the picture was so different from his quiet dinner companion that for a moment he thought his eyes were deceiving him.

“Hallothwen!” the artist cried out happily, standing to embrace her and caress her ears joyfully. “I did not think to see you until the army returned, my beauty. Have you come to sit for me again?” turning to Magoldir, he continued enthusiastically, “I'm struggling with the way her hair captures the light. It’s a difficult shade to create with our pigments.”

“No, Lithanar. This is Lieutenant Magoldir, the leader of our Guard while my Adar is away with the King’s muster. I am afraid I am rather too busy to be painted today, though it is coming along nicely.” Hallothwen replied, a note of sternness creeping into her tone as she pulled Magoldir along. “I am sorry, but it is impossible to escape Lithanar once you get him started talking about pigments.”

“But that’s… you!” Magoldir was still floored. The elleth beside him simply grinned.

“Yes, it is a rather good likeness, I think.” She smiled, moving towards the small stream that ran through the wall of the cave to splash into a small pool before disappearing underground somewhere. “This is where I work,” she pointed to the stool and easel nearest the pool. When she turned the canvas to show him, Magoldir laughed. She had captured the image of King Thorin playing the harp on the night of Lothig’s Life-Celebration, but something about her style sparked a connection.

“You painted the picture of your family that hangs in Bronwe’s office!” he exclaimed. She nodded. Moving the Dwarf-King away, Hallothwen pulled a different canvas onto her easel.

“I have been painting you, since the first night you sat by me. You are an interesting subject,” she said quietly. Magoldir stared. His face had been drawn, a slight crease of worry between his brows, and an obviously fake smile on his mouth. It was not a very flattering image, though it was probably incredibly accurate. “This is what you look like when you listen to Cellingwen fear for Thínion.” Hallothwen pulled out a second canvas, “and this is what you look like when you enjoy the food we have served. You are not fond of green beans,” she laughed. When he moved to pull out the final canvas, however, she stopped him. “That one is unfinished. I have not yet seen the expression on your face I want it to portray.”

When he left, with another long glance at the picture Lithanar was painting, he was carrying the painting of his enjoyment of dinner.

 

* * *

 

 

When he arrived at evening meal on the eleventh day of Rhîw, Hallothwen greeted him with a distracted smile, before turning back to her conversation with the young Lakewoman who had served them the other night. Magoldir was left to the tender mercies of trying to avoid setting off Cellingwen’s tears during conversation, and finished his meal quickly, leaving with the excuse of his duties. He had had about all he could stand of the teary harpist. Whoever Thínion was, he could not return quickly enough for Magoldir’s peace of mind.

 

* * *

 

 

The next night, Hallothwen was nowhere to be seen, which vexed him more than he would have anticipated. Asking the serving girl – not the same young Lakewoman as before – garnered him only the answer that Lady Hallothwen had already eaten in the kitchens before she had left. Magoldir felt inexplicably cheated.

 

* * *

 

When she did not appear on the 13th day of Rhîw either, he got slightly worried. With a few false turns, he managed to make his way back to the Cave of Pictures, thinking she might have hidden there to paint. She was there… but she was lying on a low divan, not-dressed in the same piece of shimmery silk as Lithanar had painted, while the artist himself was staring at her intently, sketching with a stick of charcoal on paper. The sight made Magoldir angry, though he could not explain why as he burst into the quiet room, startling both model and painter. With a gasp of surprise, Hallothwen sat up, and the cloth pooled in her lap. Magoldir stared; she _had_ actually been naked beneath it, not just on the painter’s canvas. When she cleared her throat pointedly, moving her arm up to hold the silk against her chest once more, he whirled, blushing deeper than he ever had before. With a curse, he fled, certain that his pride would not survive whatever accusations she would hurl at him for this unintended slight.

 

* * *

 

 

When Willa finally reached the time when her babes should be born, she had already been confined to the Healing Halls for three days. Iuleth had had to convince the children to remain in her womb twice more during the three weeks since her initial assessment, and Anna was amazed at the fact that not only had the Elf-magic – for she could call it little else, even with Iuleth’s explanation of the relationship between fëa and hröa – worked, but the babes did not seem distressed by the enforced waiting. Willa was now so encumbered by their weight and size that she could barely waddle, which was why she had become a permanent resident of the Healing Halls. The furrier’s wife did not complain, her sunny disposition never dimmed by worry for her absent husband and stepson. She did wish that Ceadda could have been present for the birth, but they had no word on when the Orcs would strike. On the morning of her third day on bedrest, a raven flew into the Halls of Thranduil, alighting on the King’s throne. It was met with a hush of silence spreading through the room even as the tall figure of Magoldir strode towards the waiting bird, holding out his arm as an offered perch. Behind him, Hallothwen came running from the kitchens, a small bowl of raw meat in her hands. The raven cawed once at the sight before it launched into Westron words.

“A great battle was won at Erebor!” it cried, “The allies of the King prevailed over the hordes of Darkness, and the North once more stands victorious! Thranduil Elvenking and Prince Legolas both send their greetings.” Chaos broke out, neighbours embracing each other at the happy news and tears falling down many cheeks. Even the Eldar, who prided themselves on being inscrutable and stoic in the face of hardships were smiling widely. The Raven had brought them what news they needed, for their King was alive and so was their beloved prince. Joy suffused the Halls. On the dais, Hallothwen silently held out her offering to the tired raven who bowed in thanks before attacking the meal. Her grey eyes were shining with happiness, even though a hint of worry remained and would do so, Magoldir knew, until she had word of her family’s well-being. He reached to squeeze her shoulder gently, earning a tremulous smile for his attempt at comfort. The raven paused in eating, croaking in low tones, “The message was relayed by Captain Bronwe, who reports that his family is whole and hale.” Hallothwen sucked in a gasp and Magoldir watched her seemingly waver, before she threw herself into his arms, weeping against his chest. Wrapping his arms securely around her, he could do little but hold her through the storm of relief, unconsciously running his palms up and down her back and pressing kisses into her soft hair.

 

* * *

 

Two days after she took up residence in the Healing Halls, Willa’s waters broke, and Iuleth got another shock, as she watched the woman go into labour. Instead of the birth being helped along by the fëar of both mother and child, Willa’s body was doing all the work, leaving the woman screaming in pain and exhausted beyond belief by the time she had her first child in her arms. The little boy immediately began screaming, a sound that brought both laughter and tears to his mother. His sister was not so lucky, for during birth, the cord that linked her to Willa’s body became tangled around her neck, cutting off her air. When the little blue body finally slid into Anna’s waiting arms, she could only look up at Willa, sorrow in her eyes and tell her the child was not breathing.

“Give her to me, Anna,” Iuleth commanded, her authority ringing through the air so strongly that the old midwife did not even consider disobeying. On the bed, Willa held her son, her cries mingling with his, tears falling from her eyes as she clutched her remaining babe to her chest. Beside her, her friend and good-sister Ethelswith tried in wain to offer comfort, having lost her own first-born in the birthing bed. Ethelswith knew that there was no comfort to be had in such a time, but she remained Willa’s firm point of contact with the world, the distraught woman clenching her hand like a vice. Iuleth was singing behind Anna, who was trying to get Willa through delivering the afterbirth, but no one paid her any attention until a loud cry rose from her. In her arms lay the small body of Willa’s daughter, but the girl, who let her displeasure be known loudly, was bright pink and flushed with health, no longer blue and still. Her little hand was wrapped around the Elf’s finger. The Lakewomen stared.

“A miracle,” Ethelswith whispered hoarsely, reaching for the little boy so Iuleth could hand Willa her daughter while Anna cleaned up the bloody aftermath of her birth. Tracing the small nose of her daughter, Willa could only stare as the babe blinked her eyes sleepily at the world.

“Thank you,” she said, silently squeezing Iuleth’s hands in gratitude.

“Her hröa simply needed to be reminded how to breathe,” the elleth smiled.

“She will be Elfgifu.” Willa said. Beside her, Ethelswith nodded. “In my husband’s tongue it means gift from elves.”

“Nana, Nana!” a breathless elleth ran into the room. Iuleth looked up sharply, though she bowed once to Willa, pressing her lips to the little girl’s head. Elfgifu scrunched up her eyes and wailed loudly, making the adults laugh.

“What is it, Cugwen?” she asked, alarmed by the elleth’s abrupt entrance.

“Victory, Naneth!” Cugwen replied breathlessly, almost dancing across the room. “Victory, nana, we have won the battle! The King sent a raven. He and the prince are both well!” Iuleth caught her daughter easily, swinging her around in an excited dance.

“This is good news, sellig. Come meet the babes of Willa, who were born in this hour of joy,” she smiled. The younger elleth laughed happily, before turning to look at the assembled Men. Anna was weeping silently, Willa had burst into great sobs and even Ethelswith, who had remained calm all through the long labouring, was dashing away tears.

“What are their names, Mistress Willa?” Cugwen asked, peering at the tiny mortals curiously. They did not look much different from elflings, apart from the ears, she decided, but they looked quite wrinkled. “ _Nana, are they supposed to look like dried apples_?” she asked, though she switched into her native Silvan to avoid offending the proud mother who handed her one swaddled babe with a smile.

“ _Yes, daughter. You looked the same just after birth. In a few days they will be soft and pink-skinned like the infants you have seen. Birth is difficult for both mother and child, sellig_.” Iuleth’s rebuke was softly spoken as she watched her daughter coo at the little girl.

“This is Elfgifu,” Willa said, accepting her bundled-up son from her good-sister with a tired smile. “And this is Erkenfrith. Elf-gift and Precious peace, children of Cadda and Willa. My husband is not here to give them names, but I am sure he will not object.” Willa had sworn to name the children in the Rohirric tongue before Cadda had left with the army, and his sister nodded at Willa’s assement of his reaction.

“And if he does, I shall side with you, sister,” she laughed, stroking her nephew’s tiny face. “They are good names.”

Iuleth nodded, before nudging her daughter. With a sigh, Cugwen returned the babe to her mother and skipped out of the Healing Wings once more.

 

* * *

 

Hallothwen shook gently, grateful that Magoldir did not say anything as he held her. They had not spoken since he had interrupted her session with Lithanar the night before, and she had quietly worried that he had been too embarrassed or appalled to continue seeking her company. His arms were strong and tight as they held her, however, and as she gradually relaxed against his chest, she could hear him murmuring reassurances in her ear. She even thought that she felt his lips in her hair once or twice.

 

* * *

 

“Oh.” The small gaspy sound of discovery Hallothwen made when she finally lifted her head made his heart race. Had she not realised whose arms were holding her? Perhaps she had hoped he was that fool Lithanar. The thought made Magoldir scowl fiercely. A soft sound came from the elleth he still held, and her cool fingers, so soft compared to his own calloused hands, cupped the side of his face. “Don’t think about what you just thought about,” she whispered. Gently she traced his features, and some distant part of him wondered what she was doing, while the greater part of him simply revelled in her skin touching his.

“Oh,” he breathed, staring down into her grey eyes. Her answering smile was brilliant and the next thing he knew was the exquisite softness of her lips pressing against his. He felt distantly worried that the strength of his arms was crushing her, but he did not wish to let go. She fit so perfectly against him, and she tasted like maple syrup and berries. Her hair smelled like baking, a scent of sugar and flour mixed with the scent of lavender that always clung to her skin. Dimly, the reality of their surroundings encroached on the bubble of bliss that kissing her created. Hearing the cheers of the ellons of his own group, Magoldir blushed hard. Hallothwen simply laughed, kissing him again before she turned to leave the dais with a final pat to the raven’s head. He stared after her, a little lost, as his men kept jeering, but when she crooked her fingers at him, he found himself beside her with little idea of how he had appeared there. Hallothwen did not speak as she grabbed his hand, pulling him off in the direction of her family’s rooms.

 

* * *

 

When she made it back to the Throne Room, the main gathering point of Thranduil’s Halls, the young elleth lithely climbed the stairs. When she reached the King’s dais, she turned to face the celebratory crowd below.

“Lasto! Lasto a nin!” she cried, watching as ripples of silence spread from the center of the room. She had never before had this duty, for usually the father would announce a birth to the Halls, but Cugwen was determined to do her mother proud. With a smile, she yelled across the empty space, “Kindred, Guests and Friends! Today I bring you glad news, for joy has been bestowed upon us with the birth of two healthy babes. Today, Elfgifu, the Elf-Gift and Erkenfrith, Precious Peace, were brought into the world through their mother, Willa Caddawife. Greet the children of Cadda and Willa!”

 

* * *

 

In the Halls of Healing, Iuleth had left the doors open behind her daughter, knowing that mortal ears were not as keen as her own. Even so, she need not have worried, for the roar of sound that greeted Cugwen’s announcement would have reached them even through the thick wood.

“What was that,” Anna asked, worriedly looking towards the ceiling. Iuleth had to hide a laugh, though the midwife was right that it had sounded like the earth was moving.

“That was the Announcement. I sent my daughter to spread the news of the successful bearing among our peoples,” Iuleth explained. “What you heard was their greeting of the babes. Silvans believe that calling the child’s name at birth ensures that the Valar know of the new-born and look favourably upon them. After all, if we did not tell the Valar that we were happy to receive their gift of a child, how would they know that we appreciated the honour?” On the bed, Willa simply smiled, almost asleep.

“My people do the same, Lady Iuleth,” Ethelswith said. “A child must be presented to the world and made known. It is the father’s honour to claim and name the child before the world.”

“For us too, it is the father’s duty,” Iuleth said, “But as your brother is not here, Mistress Ethelswith, and the Announcement must be made within the hour of birth, lest the Valar believe that we tried to hide the child from their sight, the honour falls to those who first greeted the new arrival in this world. I did not wish to leave Mistress Willa, in case aught went awry, but rest assured that my daughter has done us all proud on this day.” She smiled, pride hiding in the corners of her mouth, “Do you not hear the feasting? We have had news of great victory in battle, and that feast would be splendour enough, but the birth of two babes atop such glory makes our joy so much sweeter. My Lord Thranduil ordered that you be made welcome in our home for the duration of your stay, so even though they are children of Men, we will feast in their honour. I should not be surprised if the revelry lasts several days.” With a final bow, Iuleth and Anna left the two good-sisters with the new-borns and made their way to the bathing chambers to prepare for the feast. Birth was always a messy affair, for both mother and attendants, and a nice warm soak was sorely needed, they both felt, sharing a conspiratorial smile as they walked along the hallways.

 

* * *

 

 

When Magoldir woke in the morning, bronze silk waves spread across his chest, he did not think anything at first. Then he caught the eye of his Captain, the stern unamused expression intimately familiar on Bronwe’s face. With a curse, he leapt from the bed, trying to find out where his clothes had disappeared to, and babbling a random stream of apologies for being late.

Hallothwens bright laughter coming from the bed halted him in his tracks. Whirling to stare at her naked form had him gaping in awe and lust, but remembering the expression on his Captain’s face had him whirling around once more, pulling his tunic over his head. Hallothwen was still laughing.

“You realise that it is merely a painting of Ada, yes, Magoldir?” she chuckled, standing unabashedly and moving to his side, still gloriously naked and uncovered by the bedclothes. He kissed her again. When she pulled off his tunic once more, he made sure to toss it across the stern eyes of the Captain, staring at him from the wall. Cúnir’s smirk, Amathanar’s fierce grin in battle or Dúmon’s gentle look as he played with his daughter were far less disturbing when he was doing _that_ with Bronwe’s daughter than having her father’s face silently judging him from the frame.

“Did you ever see the expression you wanted?” he asked far later. Hallothwen nodded, resting against his arm. Pulling out a pad of paper and a stick of charcoal, she turned to use his stomach as a pillow and began sketching quickly. A concentrated frown creased her brow, but Magoldir was content to study her silently, running his fingers through the strands of her long hair as she worked.

Much later, she turned, giving him a brilliant smile. Her charcoal smudged fingers left marks on his skin when she cupped his face and pulled him in for another kiss.

“ _Meleth._ ”

 

###### notes:

[181] Children of the mortal woman, listen! Endure under the heart of mother-yours. I will help you grow strong. Wait.

[182] Stirring, the season after Rhîw, winter. Stirring begins on 25th of January and ends on march 19th.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your patience, a minor love story that actually resolved itself. Now why can't our little Princeling be that easy, sigh.


	29. Saving and Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all over... or is it?  
> The real Battle is just beginning - in the Healer's tents.

By the time those who had been at Ravenhill made it back to Erebor’s gates, the Elvenking and Lord Dáin had already created a joint camp of tents for the wounded and dying, and the sun had almost disappeared beyond the dark smudge on the horizon that was Mirkwood. Those who could not move under their own power were carried back by friends or kin, and the air was thick with the smell of blood and the screams of the injured. Bifur had carried back Dori, who had been knocked unconscious by a large Orc, while his great boar spear supported a hobbling Nori, whose knee had taken a hard blow. Dwalin tried not to think of Fíli’s body, broken and battered on the field or Kíli’s eyes, hollow as they stared at the broken form of the scribe. Dwalin had delivered Thorin to Óin’s tent, but he could not stay to watch as the old Dwarf ordered his capable assistants to cut off the King’s arm, deeming the limb unsalvageable, something Dwalin had known even before he began trying to save his love from bleeding out on the ice. Instead, he had found Balin, and drawn a sigh of relief. The carnage was not on par with Azanulbizar, but the relief at seeing his bother alive, the last remnant of his family relatively safe and well, was exactly the same. Clinging to the safety his elder brother had always represented, from the times he had nightmares as a dwarfling through the horrors that came later, Dwalin simply existed. There were things he had to say, he knew, but he had only just managed to relay the bare bones of the whole Ravenhill ordeal to Balin. Exhaustion weighed heavily on them both, intermingling with the grief of lives lost. When he thought enough time had passed that he would not have to watch his One lose a limb, Dwalin took a deep breath and returned to Kíli’s side.

 

* * *

 

 

In the healing tent that held the King, his dark-haired nephew was desperately glancing between Thorin’s still form and the anxious healers who crowded around the cot that had been found for Ori. Kíli had refused to be separated from the brave little scribe, and so the tent, which had been intended for Thorin alone, became the healing station and unofficial gathering point for the entire Company. Óin had muttered darkly when he saw Ori’s chest, and the look on his face had made Kíli whimper fearfully. No one had seen Nori or Dori, before Dwalin had brought them into the tent and he had feared that Ori’s laboured breathing would fail before they could arrive. The youngest prince clung to the still hand of his unconscious friend, his eyes imploring the bustling healers to give him good news.

 

* * *

 

 

The elder Fundinson watched in silence as Legolas carried Rhonith to his father’s tent. Currently, the Company – apart from Fíli – were all accounted for, and Balin was considering who to send off to fetch his body when he saw Legolas walk past with the bloodied form of their elleth. The prince had replaced Kíli’s well-meant, but poorly executed, attempt at a bandage with strips torn from his own clothing. It left him without his own tunic, but he managed not to wince at the feeling of her warm blood, drying cold and sticky on his skin. Worried, Balin followed them to Thranduil’s tent. Here was another of those Thorin would want to make amends with, he knew.

 

* * *

 

 

Pushing aside the tent flap, Legolas carried his precious burden inside Thranduil’s tent, sheltering her from the gawkers outside as well as the cold winter air.

“Ionneg!” Thranduil shouted at the sight of his bloodied and half-naked son. “Are you injured?” he tried to rise from the chair, but sank back down with a low curse when his leg gave way underneath him. The Elvenking had sustained a deep laceration in his thigh, but was otherwise well. He had danced with a troll, after Orcs had finally overpowered his faithful mount and left the King to defend himself, but Thranduil did not let his pain slow him down. Nestor scowled up at his king, but turned a worried glance at the young prince while his hand kept bandaging the King’s thigh.

“It is not my blood, Ada. It’s Rhonith. She was stabbed,” he made no attempt at hiding his abject terror, even as Nestor tried to make him relinquish the peredhel into the Healer’s care.

“When did she lose consciousness?” Nestor asked, repeating himself twice before Legolas’ attention left the pained face of his burden. The prince reluctantly placed her body on the cot she had slept on for the past days, letting Nestor get to his patient. With an exasperated sigh – for Nestor had seen where the Prince’s heart lay even before Thranduil – the crabby healer began removing the crude bandages, directing his assistant to fetching hot water, medicines, and proper bandages from the chests he had brought from Mirkwood.

“I know she fell when Bolg first stabbed her, but, later, I saw her stand tall, defending Oakenshield from afar with her bow. Her last arrow hit Azog’s shoulder, which probably saved King Thorin’s life,” Legolas spat, only to be interrupted by the mild tones of Balin.

“She will be honoured in the songs of today.” The old advisor said, “As will you, Prince Legolas. My brother tells me you took the fiend’s head after he stabbed our King.” Turning to Thranduil, Balin bowed politely. “The King yet lives, though he is gravely injured. He would want to speak to you, my lord, if you are amenable.” The Elvenking nodded, and Legolas looked down himself with a grimace, before he began washing the blood that stained his skin away.

“Come here, Ionneg.” Thranduil said quietly, picking up another washcloth. “Let me help you.” A protest that he was a fully-grown ellon and did not need his father to wash him like an elfling died on Legolas’ tongue when he caught sight of Thranduil’s expression. The usually aloof Elvenking was staring at the streaks of crimson that decorated his chest, but Legolas saw when he had to force his eyes from straying to Rhonith’s jagged wound. His father needed the distraction, the confirmation that his child was well and hale, and Legolas obliged.

Balin turned to address Nestor, “Will she recover?”

“In time, I believe so. Her wound, though severe, does not look troublesome. The Eldar are blessed with swift healing, and the times I have treated her before, Lady Rhonith has showed all signs of being one of Eldar blood. I will be done with the Lady soon.” Nestor promised the white-haired dwarf, whose countenance seemed to relax minutely at his words. Nestor didn’t mean anything demeaning by the comment on Rhonith’s blood; it was – to him – a simple fact that she was more Eldar than Dwarf when it came to her physical body.

“Balin…Fíli,” Rhonith said weakly. The prince stiffened, only as she spoke realising that she was conscious. “ **Fíli kuyula… mahbasatmi **[183]**** …” she mumbled, before turning her face away from Balin’s Durin-blue eyes, which slowly filled with tears at the news and sighing into the pillows as she once more gave up the battle with fatigue and blood loss. Balin’s other worries still weighed heavily, but he gave them all a courteous nod and left as quietly as he had entered.

 

* * *

 

 

Beside Kíli sat Dwalin, who had taken Dori from Bifur and let the wild-haired Dwarf return to the field to look for more survivors. The mithril-haired dwarf was currently on a cot opposite his brother’s, still unconscious from his head wound, and Nori was spitting curses at the healer who tried to set his dislocated knee, making her throw up her hands in exasperation and turn away to join her co-worker by Ori’s bed.

Nori smirked. His sharp gaze missed nothing, including the way Kíli’s knuckles were almost bloodless with the strength of his grip on Ori’s hand, a development that Nori was content to let slide until he could watch Dori’s conniption when she found out. Instead, he focused his attention on Dwalin, watching as his old friend gazed at his King, and Nori felt a stab of pity for the Captain of the Guard. Dwalin had received nothing worse than a weak slash on his bicep, a wound so inconsequential that it was barely worth mentioning, and Nori knew that if it did not already, it would haunt Dwalin’s mind that he had received so few injuries when Thorin had already lost an arm and might still not make it. For once, his sharp tongue and quick wit failed him, and he could find no words to offer his friend, and had to content himself with squeezing Dwalin’s shoulder silently.

 

* * *

 

 

Moving with less than his usual fluid grace, the Elvenking left his tent, setting out for the tent that held Thorin  supported by the haft of a spear to take some of his weight off his wounded leg. Legolas had looked up as he left, but Thranduil had gestured his son back down, letting the fretting ellon return to watching the steady rise and fall of Rhonith’s chest. Nestor, too, had left the King’s tent, following his King to the Dwarf-King’s apparent death-bed. Captain Bronwe, who had suffered nothing direr than a broken arm, took up position beside his old friend, baring his teeth at any dwarf who looked oddly at Thranduil’s injury. It was not common to see an Elf limping. The First-born, while capable of withstanding great damage in comparison to the other races, were still subject to injury and violent death. Thranduil’s recovery would be swifter than any mortal’s, but Bronwe would not leave his side until he had been declared entirely healed. The Captain had never forgiven himself for being separated from his friend during the dragon fight so many years before; even if it had led Hwiniedir to the love of his very long life as a result.

 

* * *

 

When Balin arrived, telling them of Fíli’s miraculous survival and saying that he had found a usable wagon for them to go to Ravenhill and fetch him, Nori felt a stab of worry. It seemed as though Kíli had not even heard his words, consumed with watching the healers try to help Ori, something quite unlike one of the almost inseparable brothers. Balin repeated himself, but when Kíli looked up, pale and trembling with post-battle fear, the three elder dwarrow exchanged an understanding look.

Dwalin got up, bending his forehead to Kíli’s and clasping him in a warriors hug.

“I will bring him home, Kíli, **irakdashat **[184]****. Watch over Thorin for me and I will go find your brother.” Dwalin’s quiet rumble seemed to reverberate in Kíli’s bones and the younger dwarf closed his eyes, nodding solemnly and letting his uncle go with a soft sigh.

“Thank you, uncle,” he whispered, sounding like a dwarfling fifty years his junior, Nori thought, as Kíli kept clinging to Ori’s hand. With a final nod towards Nori, the warrior and the advisor left, and Nori returned to his prone position, keeping his eyes half open, but sinking into rest. His knee would keep him from sleeping until Dwalin returned to guard the Royals, which was why Nori had protested Healer Lívhild’s treatment. He was used to taking assorted damage, after all, and though the knee hurt, he was quite sure it was not actually damaged badly, simply dislocated.

 

* * *

 

 

Dwalin, following Balin, left the King’s tent just as the Elvenking arrived, exchanging a brief nod with Thranduil, who detected no hostility in his gaze, which made him less apprehensive about seeing Thorin. The bald warrior left, shouting hurried orders and watching the bustling dwarrow parted before him with alacrity. Thranduil couldn’t help his quick half-smile, and Bronwe was happy to see it. He too had been strongly reminded of their old Master-of-Weapons, whose bearing and voice were eerily similar to Dwalin’s – and just as swiftly obeyed.

When the three Elves entered the dim tent, their eyes quickly fell on the injured Dwarf-King. Thorin lay on a fur-covered cot, his upper chest bandaged and his armour removed. Only long experience with wounds of battle let them keep from gasping at the sight of Thorin, however. Where his left arm should have been, only mangled flesh remained. Óin had already removed the arm, which had been hacked more than half off by the sword that had stabbed into Thorin’s shoulder, just below the collarbone, and could not be saved. The serrated edge of Azog’s blade, however, had ripped and torn its way through muscle and sinew, and it was not a question of how much of a stump Óin could save, it was a question of trying to staunch the heavy bleeding from the wound before the King died.

Seeing the old and half-deaf Dwarf healer pull a red-hot blade out of the coal-brazier beside the sickbed, however, made Thranduil’s eyes widen. With a display of the speed that had given him his first name, he rounded on the Dwarf, blocking his path to Thorin. Beside him, Nestor too had paled, staring at what he could only consider an instrument of torture.

“What are you doing?” Óin asked sourly, swerving to avoid hitting the silent elf with the burning blade. “Sorry, Lívhild,” he gasped, as the younger Iron Hills healer had to jump back to avoid being hit. Óin stuck the blade back among the coals with a sheepish expression, but the dwarrowdam waved off his apology easily.

“ _Nestor, daro i agar. Nesto den_[185],” Thranduil hissed, not even realising that the old Dwarf would most likely not understand him, gesturing to the green-robed elf still standing by the opening of the tent. With a glance at Óin, who scowled but stepped back instantly, Nestor bent over the prone Dwarf. A few more hissed Silvan words had Captain Bronwe striding to the tent opening and calling out loud orders, which brought one of Nestor’s assistants running immediately. With her, she brought a fully stocked medicine chest, silently handing Nestor what he needed. The two Dwarven healers from the Iron Hills had tried to intervene at first, but a loudly barked command from Kíli had them subsiding back to Ori’s bed. The Elvenking and the young prince exchanged a look. It was not fond, but there was a sense of mutual respect as Kíli nodded at Nestor. The green-robed healer was oblivious to his surroundings, entirely focused on Thorin’s wounds as he muttered spells and prayers under his breath. Before the Dwarrow’s astonished eyes, his almost song-like chant staunched the blood flowing from the mangled flesh without the need to cauterize the wound.

 

* * *

 

When Dwalin made it back to Ravenhill, he breathed a sigh of relief. He had commandeered a couple of Iron Hills dwarrow, after checking on Thorin’s wound, as well as the wagon Balin had obtained. Geira, as Dáin insisted on calling her – claiming that he couldn’t possibly use her Elven names over such a good Dwarven one – had said that she had healed Fíli and that he would live, but Dwalin would take no chances with his beloved nephew. He did not know how far Fíli had fallen, but he considered it unlikely that the young Dwarf would have escaped without broken bones. Finding Fíli, however, proved difficult, and when he finally did, he could not help but gasp. The Crown Prince’s face was half-obscured by a bandage that had once been undyed linen but which was now a mottled green from the salve beneath, with a few red flecks where blood had seeped through. His leg, braced by a broken piece from an Orc spear and a few arrows, was covered in dark bruising, but Dwalin drew a sigh of relief when Fíli’s remaining eye opened.

“Uncle,” he whispered hoarsely, hiding his face in Dwalin’s shoulder when the warrior picked him up as easily as if he had been five once again, and begging for a ride on Dwalin’s shoulder so he could reach the cookie jar on the top shelf.

“Fíli,” Dwalin replied, equally hoarse, as he crushed the lad against his chest, a few tears rolling into his beard to join the ones he knew were soaking his shoulder. “Mahal, Fíli. We thought you were dead.”

“Takes more than the Pale Orc to kill this Durin, Uncle,” Fíli grinned, weakly but with genuine pleasure, as Dwalin began to make his way down from the overhang under which Fíli had been stashed, wrapped in their elleth’s warm cloak. “Rhonith saved me, Uncle. I think she stitched up my face, I remember her singing to me,” he said quietly. He did not protest being carried, even if the splint on his leg would have enabled him to walk, and Dwalin did not offer to set him down until he deposited him in the wagon. The two Iron Hills Dwarrow stared. They had believed – when they had heard the story of his fall – that they would be retrieving the Crown Prince’s corpse. Fíli grimaced when the wagon jostled him as it moved across the rocky ground, his head throbbing with every beat of his heart.

 

* * *

  

_Thorin paced. The two dwarrow in the room with him sat quietly. One was ashen-faced, the other standing strong and still as stone, but all three of them reacted when the screams sounded from the next room. Dwalin’s eyes showed his only reaction, a controlled flinching. Víli, the ashen-faced soon-to-be father, winced at every cry. Thorin simply grew angrier. When Frerin died, he had sworn an oath to protect his remaining sibling from any and all pain, and the helplessness he now faced felt like failure. Dís was in there, his little sister, screaming her head off, and he could not make it better. He glared at Víli, who flinched as yet another scream reverberated through the house, Thorin was content to blame the entire debacle on Víli, carefully ignoring his sister’s obvious part in the creation of the whole thing. He looked at Dwalin, finding a measure of peace in the solemn face of his One. Dwalin was his strength, he had long known it. Another scream interrupted his thoughts and Thorin whirled, to stare wrathfully at Víli. The other dwarf seemed entirely oblivious to the very dark and very permanent alterations his brother-in-law was contemplating in regards to his dwarfhood, listening to the pained and exhausted cries of his beloved wife as she laboured to bring their pebble into this world._

_After what the listeners felt was an age or longer, the dwarrowdam’s cries stopped. They barely dared breathe, until they heard it: the first cries of the little pebble. The birth was over._

_Only Dwalin’s hand, steady as bedrock and twice as implacable, kept Thorin from barrelling into the room ahead of Víli. Even for the King, there were rules, and Thorin knew Dwalin was right to stop him. The father would be the first to see the little one; to give it his name, and then Thorin could claim the new pebble as Heir of Durin’s Line. Thorin looked back at the one he would call One, if tradition would let him, and he saw the same fierce joy and pride in Dwalin’s eyes that he was sure shone from his own. Finally, Dwalin stopped holding him back, and the two dwarrow sped through the door, all thoughts of dignified bearing and regal postures forgotten in favour of meeting their little nephew and congratulating the new parents._

_Dís sat on the bed, tired, but proud, a small bundle in her arms. Wordlessly, she held the child, lifting him towards her brother._

_“His name is Fíli,” Víli said hoarsely. His hand wrapped itself tightly around Dís’, eyes shining with pride and love for his wife and child._

_“Hello Fíli, son of Víli, son of Villin and of Dís, daughter of Thraín, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain. I name thee irakdashat, rayad Durinul, Usgal magabshûn **[186]**. May you follow in your mother’s footsteps and be a wise and fair Dwarf in all your days.” Bringing the dwarfling to his face, Thorin nuzzled the tiny nose with his own, before handing little Fíli back to his tired mother. “You did well, Zanshunush **[187]**. He will be a credit to your line.” Dís’ smile was tremulous, and Thorin knew they were both longing for the voices that should have been with them._

_“I think there is one more thing to say, my son,” Frís’s quiet voice from the corner of the room interrupted the small moment of longing for those gone to the Halls of Waiting. “You have an Heir now, and I think you have waited long enough.”_

_“Amad…” Thorin could only stare at her. Frís smiled kindly._

_“Did you think we did not see? Long have I known your dreams, Kandunudê **[188]**, and watched you despair in longing. I say it is time. If your Adad were here, he would agree with me.”_

_“Amad.” Thorin swallowed the lump in his throat with difficulty. “Thank you.” He reached into his tunic, bringing out a small leather pouch. “Dwalin.” The warrior stiffened. His attention had been occupied by the new little Prince, and missed the conversation between his Thorin and the Princess._

_“Thorin?”_

_“I have known for a long time that you are the heart of me. Kurdelê. My One. Will you claim me as yours?” he held the pouch over his hand, dropping a small silver bead into his open palm. He had laboured on it for years, melting and re-melting the silver when his results did not match his vision, but now it was perfect._

_“All that you are, and all you will be, Thorin. Kurdelê. If you will claim me in turn.” Dwalin said, hoarsely. He had expected to love his Prince from afar, sharing his bed for comfort or pleasure, but never officially tied to the One his heart sung for._

_“Ukmath mudtul, zabirasakhjami astu ins yásûnê?_ _**[189]**_ _.” Thorin asked, and the smile he received was blinding with incandescent happiness. He did not doubt his own face mirrored Dwalin’s and finally, he was allowed to kiss his Dwalin without wondering if anyone saw them, and from the bed came Dís’ laughter. Thorin could not remember ever feeling so filled with joy._

 

* * *

 

When Nestor finally straightened, Thorin’s face remained pale, but the deep lines of pain were lessened. With swift fingers, the healer wrapped a long bandage around the stump of his shoulder, but the other dwarrow in the room had seen that Thorin’s wound now looked days or even weeks old, rather than hours, well on its way to healing. The jagged edges of flesh were knitting together, leaving a scar that seemed far neater than they could have achieved with needle and catgut thread. The innermost layer of bandages was soaked in a potion, which filled the tent with its green scent when the stopper was removed. With a nod to his king, Nestor tipped a few drops of another concoction into a mug of steaming water.

“When he wakes, make him drink this, even if it is no longer warm,” he said, not unkindly, as he looked at the assembled dwarrow. Tilting his head, he made his way to Ori’s bedside next, tutting slightly when he saw the damage Bolg’s mace had caused. Ori’s ribs were definitely broken, at least six of them, and bent slightly into his chest. The Dwarrow had been discussing how to treat him, as ribs were never easy to set and the way they bent, even a careful realignment might be enough to pierce a lung or another organ. Ori was pale, and his breathing decidedly laboured; to Kíli’s ears it was even worse than when he had first stumbled into the tent carrying the wounded scribe. Nestor felt a vague sense of amazement that the Dwarf was still breathing, but perhaps Dwarf bones were stronger than Elf bones and the damage not as severe as it looked? Running his hands lightly over the small body, Nestor hummed thoughtfully. Pulling out yet another bottle, he smeared a few drops under Ori’s nose, before he put his hands on the young dwarf’s chest. Afterwards, Kíli could only stare, along with the three Dwarven healers, as Nestor’s hunched figure began glowing softly, lit from within as his voice rose in a prayer they did not understand. Behind Nestor, Thranduil had moved up, putting his hand on the healer’s shoulder and the Elvenking seemed to be luminous too, moreso than he had seemed when they had first seen him, lounging on his throne. When Nestor finally stepped away from Ori, his hands were shaking slightly, and one of the Iron Hills Dwarrow silently placed a chair behind him while the other handed him a mug of water. Ori slept peacefully in his cot. His chest had lost its former concave look, and he was breathing easily. Kíli returned to his watchful post, holding the scribe’s hand and tracking each motion with his eyes.

“They say that Elven healing is different from ours, but that…” Óin said, awed almost beyond words, “That was a privilege to watch.” Beside him, the two healers from the Iron Hills nodded solemnly. None of them had considered asking for the help of the Eldar, simply because they had not expected to get much, if any, but all three were aware that Ori would have succumbed to his injuries if Nestor had not done whatever Thranduil had ordered him to do.

“Thank you,” Kíli croaked, looking at Nestor with tears in his eyes. The young prince shakily got to his feet, but when he tried to bow to the seated Healer, his eyes rolled back into his head and he quietly pitched forward, narrowly missing breaking his nose again because Bronwe caught him around the waist. Bringing Kíli to the cot next to the brazier, which still held Óin’s amputation blade, the Captain frowned slightly.

“He is weakened, in body and mind, my Lord. But I can see no obvious injuries.” He said, looking at Thranduil with a puzzled face. Beside the Elvenking, Nestor grimaced with tiredness, but got to his feet, waving off Thranduil’s supporting hand as he moved towards the young Dwarf. Óin began methodically removing the young prince’s armour and clothes, revealing only bruises and minor injuries on his chest, but Nestor wrinkled his nose.

“ _There is a sickness on him, King Thranduil, one I have not smelt in an age,_ ” he muttered, puzzled, but wary.

“ _Can you mend his injuries?_ ” Thranduil asked quietly. “ _If so, do it, but do not lose yourself. Sellig is more than fond of these dwarrow, I should not wish for her to grieve them just yet if they may be spared._ ” Nestor nodded. Waving at the young Iron Hills healer to remove Kíli’s breeches and boots too, the five around the bed almost gagged when they saw what his boot had hid. Kíli’s lower calf was a mottled mess of blackened and green flesh, parts oozing pus and his foot seemed to be nothing but bones with bits of dark rot attached to hold the shape. Though the Dwarrow could not see the necrosis moving, the Elves could see how rapidly it spread. Nestor shook his head sadly, pointing to the black lines that were travelling up towards the knee.

“ _Sêw rhachui **[190]**!_ ” he spat. Beside him, Thranduil and Bronwe both paled, reminded of times far darker. A silent look passed between them.

“Bronwe. Fetch fresh athelas. We cannot save his foot, but we may yet save his life, if we hurry,” Thranduil whispered, looking at Kíli’s flesh with absolute horror. The Captain did not reply, but left the tent with alacrity, yelling orders almost before he had cleared the canvas flap.

 

 

 

 

###### notes:

[183] Fíli lives… I healed…

[184] Nephew.

[185] Nestor, stop the blood. Heal him. – Nestor uses the blood staunching song, a way to stop blood flow that Luthien used on Beren’s arrow wound, and which was apparently a spell/gift used among the Doriathren Elves, from whom Thranduil and most of the Sindar in Mirkwood are descended. From Luthien’s use, we can infer that the song works on mortal flesh as well as Elven.

[186] Nephew, Heir of Durin, Treasured questioner

[187] Birdie – nickname

[188] My little wolf

[189] Heart-song, please be my husband

[190] Cursed poison!


	30. Vigils and Searches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November 24 - continued  
> Those who lived take stock, and desperate measures are taken.

Hours after the fighting had ended, when the sun had already set, Bofur still felt like he could hear the sounds of swords clashing all around him. Bofur did not like war. He had already felt so, but the bloody aftermath of war only increased his loathing for the practise as he scoured the field with Bifur, ostensibly looking for survivors, but in reality only seeking one small form among the rest: their errant Hobbit. Bombur had begged off the task, limping on his twisted ankle, but his talents were better expended in the kitchen tents anyway, so neither of the ‘Urs had argued. They had greeted a few of the Lakemen they knew by name, and even spotted Beorn’s massive form in the distance, but slowly the field emptied of wounded, leaving only the eerie silence of death, punctured by the cries of the searchers finding deceased loved ones. Dwarven eyes – far better at low light than Elven ones – meant that the two cousins kept walking the field until late in the night, when hunger drove them back to Bombur’s stew pot. The carrion birds had not yet arrived, though Bofur would not be surprised if the Ravens of Erebor would feast tonight. He only hoped they would not be feasting on the body of his smallest friend. Bofur was getting desperate, his usual spirit dampened. Bifur’s presence beside him, ever calm and competent, was the only reason he kept himself together. Bofur would not accept that Bilbo might not have made it, but though the two cousins found many survivors and helped them back to camp, they did not find Master Baggins.

 

Of course, this was because Master Baggins had been swept along by Gandalf, when the wizard had found him standing forlornly outside the tent where Dwalin had disappeared with Thorin. The wizard had cleverly realised that the middle of the Dwarven camp was definitely _not_ a safe place for the Hobbit, as Ilsamirë had warned them both it wouldn’t be. Those few Dwarrow who had heard of Thorin’s accusations were already spreading the tale, and until Thorin could set the record straight, Gandalf had to keep Bilbo away from them. He particularly had to keep him away from the hot-headed Dáin, who might very well consider it his sacred duty as a Dwarf of Durin’s Line to punish such treason. Instead, the Grey Pilgrim had grabbed the small Hobbit and whisked him away to the Elves’ side of camp, depositing him in the care of Bard, who was overseeing the work of collecting their dead.

 

* * *

 

Bard was happy to see that his little friend had survived relatively unharmed aside from a gash to his temple that was quickly seen to. Bilbo, too, felt joy in seeing the grim face of the de facto leader of the Lakemen. The future King who did not want to be King was running out of options to deny the honour, something that vexed him greatly. During the battle, Bard had fought well, he knew, and stories of his prowess were already circling among his people.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _You are well, hervenn-nîn?”_ Maeassel asked in the gathering darkness, when she saw her husband loping across the camp, issuing orders to the attentive elleth in Guard garb beside him. His smile grew when he spotted her face, and the next thing the baker knew, she was being swung through the air while her husband’s soft laughter filled her ears.

“ _A broken arm, no more, melethril **[191]**. It will heal quickly._ ” He said, pressing a kiss to her soft mouth, content simply to hold her for the minute she would allow him before returning to her own duties. Maeassel scowled at him for picking her up with a bad arm, but her anger fizzled quickly into relief that he was well. She had worried for him as she had worried for her sons, knowing that they would be where the fighting was thickest; Bronwe himself would never be found far from his King’s side. The two old friends had fought many wars together, and were as close as brothers, a fact she had long-since accepted even if it made her doubly fearful when her hervenn went off to war. She sighed, leaning against his broad chest and letting a measure of peace settle in her mind. Bronwe’s teeth were already watering at the scent of the hearty stew she had bubbling in the pot beside her, his growling stomach letting Maeassel know that it had been many hours since he had been fed. Breathing heavily, he hid his face in her hair, letting the scent of bread that always clung to her soothe him as it had done for millennia.

“ _And my sons, Bronwe?_ ” came her next question, but she could feel the answer in his stance, which remained relaxed as he rested against her. Her fears settled once more and she pressed a kiss to his jaw in gratitude.

“ _They have fought with great honour today, heryn vell **[192]**. Dúmon cracked a couple of ribs, but I am told he will make a full recovery. Amathanar suffered only an injury to his pride, for an Orc cut off his long hair_ ,” the two elves knew that they should not laugh at that, but Amathanar had always been vain about his hair. Bronwe squeezed his beloved wife a little tighter, “ _Cúnir has taken no injury at all and killed many with his bow. Rest easy, meleth; I am sure they will be along soon that you may see for yourself. I sent Cú and Amath out with some patrols to pick off whatever stragglers they could find, but they will return to be fed_.”

Maeassel’s shrewd gaze roamed his face, looking for anything he might have forgotten to tell her, but when she found no excessive worry in her hervenn, she let him go with a sweet kiss, turning her focus back to the feeding of the large army. Swift orders had two of her underlings picking up trays with steaming bowls and follow her husband. She knew Bronwe would be laughing at her fussing, but she could not help but call after him.

“ _Mind the King eats something, hervenn vell. And Legolas too!_ ”

Bronwe simply smiled. The admonishment to make sure the King ate something was almost as old as their marriage.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo was less than happy about being passed around like a mathom, but there was little he could do to protest, knowing that Gandalf only had his best interests in mind. He was not foolish enough to _want_ to stay near the Iron Hills Dwarrow, who had been giving him puzzled looks from the beginning. He did not want to see those looks turn darker, although he wished that he could have remained by Thorin’s side. Despite everything, Thorin Oakenshield and the Company were his _friends_ and Bilbo fretted at the lack of information he could glean about their states. He had seen Balin in the distance, looking as spry as ever and giving orders, he knew that Dwalin was alright and he had heard Óin’s gruff voice from inside the King’s tent, but that left the fates of ten of his dwarrow in the air, not to mention Rhonith, whom Legolas had seemed more than worried about on Ravenhill. Bard, however, had no answers to give, and he could only shrug and pat Bilbo’s shoulder sympathetically. Eager to make himself feel at least of some use, the little Hobbit took up water duty, serving out ladleful after ladleful to the thirsty workers who walked the fields. He caught sight of Beorn, but the skin changer missed his friendly wave. He was carrying an armful of Orc corpses – Bilbo counted at least four bodies – and the surrounding Men parted for him respectfully. Once more, Bilbo praised whichever Valar had led them to Beorn’s kind hearth, with double praise for whomever had crafted his soul. The giant was gruff – not unlike a Dwarf, Bilbo mused – but kindness shone in his eyes, alongside the ferocity of his wild nature.

The orcs would be piled in the same trench the Company had dug for Smaug and burned, but the Dwarrow would either be taken back to the Iron Hills or returned to the stone in Erebor. The Elves would – like Dínelloth – be taken back to Mirkwood and given over to their most beloved trees, as had been the Woodland practise for longer than any Elf still walking Arda could remember. Already Bilbo could see pockets of the same silence that had surrounded _their_ Elves on the night of Dínelloth’s death form, as those who had been close to the deceased found themselves with no other duties and joined the vigils. He spotted the broody Erfaron, who was holding hands with the redheaded Curulhénes as they sat by a prone shape laid out on the ground. When Bilbo drew closer, abandoning his water ladle thoughtlessly, a slight whimper escaped him at the sight of Thalawen’s lifeless face, her eyes closed in death.

“They paid her life dearly, Master Baggins,” Curulhénes said gently when the two Elves looked up at the small sound of despair. “Our gwathel killed many, before the Orc-shaft struck her in the back. Now her fëa is searching for her beloved Dínelloth in the Halls of Mandos, and if Manwë is kind, they will be reborn together in the Undying Lands.” Erfaron silently squeezed her hand. “Sit with us a while, Master Baggins, if you like. You look weary.”

“Thank you,” Suddenly tired, Bilbo stumbled over to sit on her free side. Erfaron still scared him a little, but Curulhénes simply gave him a gentle smile and did not protest when he fell asleep against her side. She could feel Erfaron’s amusement at her other side, but the little perian had been kind and polite throughout their journeys and Curulhénes did not mind the small warmth curled up against her, reminded of when her younger brother had been an elfling looking for comfort. Twining her fingers with Erfaron’s calloused ones brought her a little comfort. They had seen Legolas in the distance, carrying his Noldorin love, but they had yet to find either Faindirn or Arastor and Tuilinthel, who were never far apart. The battle had raged fiercely, and she had quickly lost sight of her group, instead finding herself fighting side by side with Glóin, who was a far more proficient warrior than she had noticed in Mirkwood. The axe in his hands was different than the one he had carried during their trip, but it looked as though it had been made for him when he swung and whirled, cutting down any foes that came near while she buzzed around him like a humming bird, the long knives in her hands stabbing hither and yon. The Dwarf had saved her – she touched the bandage on her thigh, thinking of the small slash it hid. If not for Glóin’s axe, that small wound would have been far larger, severing her artery easily. She had repaid the favour shortly after, vaulting over his helmeted head to stab her knives into the throat of the orc that was aiming for his back, and they had continued standing together until the foes stopped coming.

 

* * *

 

Glóin had, after saying a gruff farewell to the elf lass, gone in search of his brother. Ascertaining that Óin was well, if a bit peckish, Glóin had set himself to procuring food for those in the King’s tent. When he came back with the bowls, however, he was just in time to witness the rot that was eating Kíli’s foot. Looking at the blackened limb, Glóin decided that food could wait, and instead delivered his load to the next tent over, where the bowls of stew were heartily welcomed. When he managed to extricate himself from the gratitude, he returned to Thorin’s bedside, silently supportive of his cousins.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin did not register that he had awoken at first. Some sort of hissed conversation was going on to his left, but he had no mind to parse the swift Elvish syllables they uttered. Instead, he figured that either Dwalin or Óin would not be far from his side, and called out in Westron. “What’s… happening?” the voices faded, but when he opened his eyes, they were looking into the pained blue eyes of the Elvenking.

“Your nephew, Thorin. He is very ill. Poisoned by Morgul filth.” Thranduil said quietly, leaning down to help Thorin into a sitting position, so he could see Kíli’s cot. Kíli’s foot was blackened and diminished, as though his flesh had been eaten away. Thorin could see the bones in his toes, though the foot still held some flesh. Just below Kíli’s knee, a tourniquet had been tied, inexpertly tightened with a broken arrow shaft. What truly scared him, however, was the look of sympathy and grief on Thranduil’s face. The Elvenking was never usually so easy to read, and a ball of lead settled in his stomach. Thorin looked around wildly, searching for the solid comfort of Dwalin’s presence, but the warrior was nowhere to be seen. He grimaced. He knew that he had not earned Dwalin’s forgiveness, but he needed to see that his Heart-Song was alive and well. Across from him, Nori stirred.

“ **Abrâfu shaikmashâz! **[193]**** ” Nori cried, but Lívhild, who had just fixed his dislocated knee simply smiled, nodding her head and gently wiping the sweat from his brow with a cold cloth. From the cot beside Ori’s, Dori stirred, and Nori idly considered whether he was so used to scolding Nori for his language that he could do it even while unconscious, but Dori simply turned over, falling back asleep with a soft sigh. Nori sent the healer a sheepish expression, but when she winked roguishly at him, he returned the gesture with a smirk.

“Dwa..lin?” Thorin muttered, making the Thief perk up once more.

“He went to fetch Fíli, just before Kíli fainted. He’s fine.” Nori explained, shooting a glance at Thranduil, but continuing unabashed, “The Elf Healer took care of your shoulder, but you’d already lost the arm. Then he healed Ori, who got hit with Bolg’s mace in the chest. The rest of the Company are well, none of us died,” and Thorin could not help the twin breaths of relief nor the tear that trailed down his cheek at Nori’s words. His Kurdel was alive and well, and his Company had not perished for his mad dream.

“Fetch… Fíli?” he asked, wincing as he turned sharply to look at Thranduil once more. He was so tired. The Elvenking nodded.

“Sellig found Prince Fíli after he fell. She said she healed him before she went to fight Bolg with Kíli,” he sighed, turning in the direction of his own tent. Thranduil sat on the chair Kíli had abandoned, keeping watch as Nestor spoke in low tones with the Dwarven healers.

“Fíli lives?” a weight he had not realised he carried suddenly lifted, and Thorin could breathe freely. He laughed low in his throat, patting his pocket with a smile. “ **Akhliti abnâthê duzi maraza, Zunshanush, nana’imê**[194],” he whispered. “How is she?” his eyes closed once more, but he did hear the Elvenking’s quiet reply.

“Injured, but Nestor assures me she will live. Legolas is with her now.” Thranduil said, looking up when Dwalin burst into the tent, carrying the obviously injured Crown Prince. Fíli looked first to Thorin, breathing out a smile when he saw his Uncle’s eyes snap open, drinking in both their faces. His smile faltered entirely when he caught sight of Kíli’s mangled leg. With a scream, he began to struggle, but Dwalin too had seen the young prince’s injury, and he did not have the wherewithal to let Fíli go. Eventually, he pulled out of his shocked stupor, but he simply set Fíli down on Thorin’s cot, sinking heavily onto the furs himself as his eyes roamed Kíli’s pale and feverish form. Unconsciously, Dwalin grabbed for Thorin’s hand, like he had so many times when they needed each other’s support, but when he did not feel the grip he sought, he twisted sharply, eyes wild. In that moment, he truly realised that Thorin had lost one of his arms, but whatever Thorin saw on his face, Dwalin did not know. He only knew that suddenly Thorin’s warm calloused fingers had found his cheek, wiping away the moisture gathered there. Dwalin shuddered, but when Thorin leaned in, he touched his forehead to his. Beside him, Fíli trembled, intermittently whimpering in fear, and Dwalin easily lifted the scared young dwarf to his other side, so he and Thorin could bracket the youth, keeping Fíli still.

“ **Mahal** ,” he breathed, and heard Thorin echoing his sentiment a heart-beat later, “ **Mahal ra Kaminzabdûna mantihifizun ai-kayula **[195]**.** ” Fíli shakily repeated the prayer, and even Nori’s voice joined them.

“He will live, Lord Dwalin, I will see to it,” Thranduil said in a low voice, but his words had the ring of a fervent oath. “He will lose the foot, at least, but if we can stop it before the poison,” he gestured to the black lines that had only moved slightly further up towards Kíli’s knee, “reaches his heart, he will live. In truth, your heir’s use of the tourniquet has given us much time.” In that moment, Thorin would have kissed the haughty elf, if he had been able to get up, but he thought it better not to act on the impulse, and instead wrapped himself around Fíli and Dwalin as best he could, his Kurdel’s strong arm snaking around his back to keep him upright.

“Why are you doing nothing for him,” Fíli cried, but Thranduil did not take offense at the upset accusation.

Leaning on his spear, Thranduil put his hand on Kíli’s sweaty forehead, closing his eyes. “ _Avo dhavo am môr, Kíli Go-Durin, caun vell,_ ” he whispered. “ _Phosto nuin Giliath_. _Sîdh_. [196]” The last word was less a prayer and sounded more like a spell, and they could see Kíli’s features relaxing slightly. Nestor looked up from his low conversation with Óin, but his customary glare lacked some bite when it found the visibly distressed Dwarf Prince. Instead, he moved silently across the floor of the tent. “I can do little for your brother until my Captain’s scouts return with fresh supplies of athelas, a plant that does not grow many places near here, I fear,” he sighed. “This is a poison we have not seen in an Age, and it is difficult to fight. We can only hope that Prince Kíli is strong enough to last through the pain it causes while it eats his flesh.”

“You speak Khuzdul?” Nori asked, casting about for a distraction from the younger prince’s suffering. Thranduil smiled fleetingly.

“No, Master Nori, but that prayer was hardly difficult to understand. I once heard your forebear Durin say almost the same.” Even though he mangled the pronunciation slightly, his next words were recognisable Khuzdul. “ **Mahal ai-kayulai**[197]. He prayed for our Rhonith for many days, once.”

“What poison is it?” Fíli whispered. The sorrow they could see in Thranduil’s features scared him almost more than the sight of Kíli’s horrific injury.

“We call it Death-Eater, and there is no true antidote, Prince Fíli.” Nestor explained quietly, unwinding the bandage that covered Fíli’s face and humming slightly as he washed the gunk off the skin with warm water. Fíli did not move a muscle, though his hand clenched into a fist when the gentle motions of Nestor’s hands pulled at the stitches Rhonith had made in his cheek. Nestor continued calmly, but there was no room to doubt his words in any of the Dwarrow’s hearts, “The only treatment is severing the affected limb above the part eaten by the poison, and then we can attempt to purge the remnants from his blood before they devour more of his flesh.” Nestor sighed, glancing at Thranduil, whose calming hand still rested on the young dwarf’s forehead, “The King is correct that we can save him, but it requires some of the most potent medicines we can make. Fresh athelas is far stronger than dried or even what we picked fresh before we came to the desolation.” He sniffed suddenly, bringing his face close to Fíli’s would. An expression of surprise dawned on his face. “My King, I can smell miruvor on this Dwarf. Did your daughter bring a flask of it with her from Imladris?” and they all heard the undertones of hope in his voice, something that only grew stronger with the King’s reply.

“Rhonith can make miruvor, Nestor, though she has sworn not to give out the recipe, and she would only use it on a mortal if she had little other choice. If she used it on Fíli, I don’t doubt her need was great indeed. It is not a concoction to be used lightly.” Thranduil said. His long fingers kept contact with Kíli’s clammy skin as he turned to face the green-robed healer. “Is it necessary to feed the anfang prince miruvor? He is not yet so weakened, I thought,” the Elvenking frowned, his focus turning inward as he reached for the bright spark of the Dwarf’s soul.

“Miruvor is potent, my Lord. I believe it would increase the efficacy of the athelas if we were to mix it into the antidote. It is what she did for the elder Prince’s face,” Nestor replied, and with a considering look at the three Dwarrow huddled on the bed, the Elvenking nodded. “I do not think she gave him any to drink, however, the pupil in his remaining eye is normal, and responds to light as I would expect. It has simply sped the healing process along. The bones of his face seem merely cracked, not broken, and the skin underneath the stitches has started to bond.”

“So be it.” Thranduil said and a ghost of a smile passed his face, “But if Lord Elrond discovers that we have used his precious cordial to invent new medicines, I am blaming you entirely,” with mischief dancing in his eyes, Thranduil raised his voice, summoning a passing elleth. “Go to my tent and tell Legolas that I require Rhonith’s miruvor to save her kinsman. She will have it hidden in her clothes somewhere I believe.” Thranduil ordered. With a bow, the elleth left.

 

* * *

 

 

Legolas had almost fallen sleep sitting upright by Rhonith’s bedside when an elleth whose name he didn’t remember entered his Ada’s tent.

“ _Caun vell, the King has ordered that Lady Rhonith’s miruvor be taken to the Dwarf-King’s tent_ ,” she asked quietly. “ _The King said it would be hidden in her clothes._ ”

Nodding tiredly, Legolas got to his feet, but the small pile that was Rhonith’s blood-soaked tunic yielded no flask of miruvor. Looking back at her prone form, he frowned thoughtfully. Moving the tunic with his boot, he did not find the small satchel she had had strapped to her hips in the morning. He did not remember if she had been wearing it when he had picked her up on top of the Ravenhill Watchtower. With a sigh, he flipped back the blanket that kept her unconscious body warm, wincing slightly at the sight of the bandage that wrapped around most of her chest. There was no satchel attached to her belt, but her breeches bulged oddly, as though she had stuffed something down the side of her right thigh. Undoing the lacing quickly, Legolas pulled the flask from its hiding-place, wondering why she had stashed it there rather than her medic-bag, but handing the small silver flask to the elleth who left quickly. Reaching to pull back the blanket once more, Legolas frowned. He had not seen it often, but there used to be a scale shaped red patch on the back of her hip, he was sure. Pulling the top of her breeches further down did not reveal the scale where he thought it ought to be, and Rhonith did not stir. Legolas did not dare turn her onto her side, instead climbing over the bed to check if he had forgotten which side the scale had been implanted on. There was no scale to be found, only pale soft skin. Worried now, for the scale had resisted all attempts at removal that Ada had tried when she had been rescued, he knew, Legolas perched thoughtfully on the edge of the cot.

 

* * *

 

Nestor turned his attention back to Fíli’s face, smearing the already well-healing gash with another of his salves before redoing the bandage. The silent return of the elleth a little while later, carrying a silvery flask decorated with an intricate geometric design that turned into soft flowing vines and flowers around the edge in a seamlessly interlocking pattern. When he saw the item, Thranduil’s composure failed him slightly in a bemused snort. “Only Rhonith would craft such a thing and make her own dichotomy work in the making.”

The flask passed from hand to hand, but it was Thorin who exclaimed in surprise. “This was made by my mother’s hand. I recognise her mark on it.” He sighed, before handing the intricately designed object to Nestor, who sniffed it carefully, but smiled.

 

* * *

 

Balin finally had a moment’s respite; most of the soldiers had gone to bed. Even Dáin, who had been working just as hard as Balin at ensuring that everything ran smoothly, had finally headed off to his own tent, grateful to be able to remove his fake foot at last. Balin wanted to be beside Dwalin and Thorin in the healing tents, but he had had to content himself with infrequent updates as the night passed. Morning would break soon, and there was much to do, a whole list of worries running through his mind. When he stuck his head into the healing tent for an update, however, he found that the youngest Prince was in life-threatening danger. A single look at the despair on his brother’s face sealed Balin’s fate; he would remain with his cousins, keeping vigil over their youngest member until morning came. When he sank onto Nori’s cot with a heart-felt groan, Balin was asleep almost before his head hit the furs. Above him, Nori chuckled, and even Dwalin found a small smile at the sight of the exhausted advisor sleeping like a baby. The Thief covered him gently with a spare blanket, as the rest of those who were able found themselves in the welcoming embrace of sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Finally, when Dwalin was certain that dawn was almost upon them once more, one of Bronwe’s runners returned, as out of breath as any of the mortals had ever seen an elf, but brandishing a bouquet of herbs at Nestor, who exclaimed happily at the sight. Those inside the tent slowly filled with hope as they watched him crush the herbs, the pungent smell filling the room and somehow easing their wearied spirits. Some of the herbs he put in boiling water, placing the bowl by Kíli’s head and letting him breathe in the steam. The young Dwarf’s tense figure eased slightly with each breath as his pain began to fade. In a different bowl, Nestor put the rest of the herbs, along with drops from different flasks he pulled from his chest of medicine.

“Will you wield the blade, Thranduil Aran,” he asked, when he had poured some of the miruvor into the bowl and mixed the ingredients into a thick paste. “I shall do the song once more, but I need to focus on that.”

“I will,” Dwalin heard himself say. Around him, Thorin’s remaining arm squeezed tight, but when Dwalin made to get up, Thorin released him without protest.

“As I cannot, Dwalin will do it.” The Dwarf-King said solemnly. Fíli’s face had lost none of its scared expression, but he too nodded determinedly. At the head of the cot, Thranduil smiled. He might not know the precise cultural undercurrent at work here, but he could see the steely determination in all three Dwarrow; the King, the Heir and the future Consort.

“I shall remain, keeping the young one’s _fëa_ at peace will only aid you, old friend,” Nestor nodded and Dwalin picked up the blade Óin had left in the brazier. “Not with that!” Thranduil exclaimed in horror, as the Dwarrow looked at him nonplussed.

“Use a clean blade, Master Dwarf,” Nestor said calmly, “I will staunch the blood without burning his flesh as I did for King Thorin’s shoulder.” With a shrug and a glance at Thorin for permission, Dwalin picked up Orcrist, which he had cleaned and placed against the wall after he had handed Thorin’s unconscious body over to Óin’s tender mercies. “Use the alcohol to wipe down the blade,” Nestor said, gesturing to a jug in the bottom of his chest. Dwalin lifted the sword easily. “Cut here,” Nestor pointed, “just below the tourniquet.” The elf began singing softly once more, joined a few heartbeats later by Thranduil’s harmonious voice.

The sword fell.

 

 

  


###### notes:

[191] My lover(f)

[192] Beloved lady

[193] Descendant of rats!

[194] So I hold my Oath to you fulfilled, Little bird, sister mine. (Little bird is Dís’ childhood nickname.)

[195] Mahal and Yavannah, we beg you, let him live.

[196] Don’t give in to darkness, Kíli Durin’s descendant, beloved prince. Rest under the stars. Peace.

[197] Mahal, let her live.


	31. Rest and Organisation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bloody aftermath continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> due to my recent attempt not to create 15k chapters, this day will span more than one. I'll try to post the rest asap.

Kíli did not scream when Dwalin cut off his foot, nor when Nestor grimly applied the paste he had made before his song staunched the blood from the severed limb. The healer opened deep cuts above the veins darkened by the Death-Eater poison, forcing the tainted blood to well up and leave Kíli’s body. The miruvor and athelas paste was squeezed over the fresh cuts, letting the athelas infused miruvor seep into the damaged tissue. When the black lines had vanished, more than an hour of constant chanting from the two Elves had passed. Kíli’s stump was no longer bleeding, and his face was unmarred by lines of pain. Fíli slumped against Dwalin’s side. Thorin’s exhausted body had not remained awake longer than the initial amputation, but Dwalin’s solid presence, as well as his Uncle’s light snores, comforted Fíli more than words could say as he watched his little brother crippled. Glóin’s hand was tight on Dwalin’s shoulder, though the usually loud merchant kept uncharacteristically silent. Dáin had entered the tent midway through the process, but it was not until the Elves stepped away from the unconscious Prince – both looking decidedly grey and tired, even to Dwarrow eyes – that the boisterous Dwarf dared make the obvious Ironfoot the Second joke. Dáin’s levity broke the tense atmosphere at once, even if it was not all that funny, and the gathered Company all drew a breath of relief. When Fíli got to his feet and staggered over to Kíli’s cot, sinking onto the mattress on his brother’s uninjured side and curled himself around Kíli’s unconscious form, their hair mingling in strands of gold and obsidian on the pillow, no one had the heart to stop him. Óin had merely offered the worn-out Prince a sip of bitter painkiller tea, and Fíli was soon asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Even though Eru Illuvatar had granted possession of _fëar_ to his adopted children, the _fëar_ that sought houses in Dwarrow _hröar_ were the most stubborn and most difficult to wrangle for Elven spirit healing purposes. Their battle had been difficult, and Nestor did not think he could have saved the Dwarf without the Elvenking’s presence in Kíli’s mind. The tenacious nature of his King resonated with the natures of most Dwarven warriors, and while the healer possessed his own brand of stubbornness, he was no match to Thranduil in a temper. Casting a look at the almost empty flask of miruvor, Nestor took a sip before handing the last of it to Thranduil. The two Elves left quietly, seeking their own beds for the few hours of rest they might snatch before morning grew late enough that they would be missed.

 

* * *

 

The morning did not dawn so much as it seemed to diffuse into the rising fog. Those who were familiar with foretelling weather swore that they’d see snow within two days, far more than the light layer that had dusted the ground during the long hours of the night.

In the King’s tent, those of the Company not already about the many duties needing done were slowly waking. Thorin remained abed, dosed with milk of the poppy on Óin’s orders to give his hip and ribs time to heal. Dáin had been gone for hours already, only permitting himself four hours of sleep. Thorin had not asked his cousin for aid, but Dáin knew what was required to keep a Mountain running as well as a soldier’s camp, and he and Balin had silently agreed to keep the King from as much strain as possible. There was no telling if the madness had truly been silenced for good, and neither wanted to subject Thorin to something he was unprepared for.

The Elvenking and the Royal Healer had both left – the Elvenking to his own tent and Nestor to the tent assigned to him – for some much needed rest after their long struggle for Kíli’s life. Óin had caught a few hours of sleep himself, trusting Nestor to wake him if he was needed to help, but as they had been reduced to waiting for one of the scouts to return with the herbs, Óin had followed the policy of any battlefield medic: sleep whenever you’re able.

The youngest Prince was sleeping, heavily dosed with one of Nestor’s potions, and under the watchful gaze of Dwalin, who had not managed to sleep at all during the night.

Thorin was no longer in mortal peril, but the substantial blood loss would slow his healing considerably. He remained in need of the wrappings Óin had tied about his only recently healed ribs, which had cracked once more. The old healer could only grumble and thank the Maker that Thorin had not let himself be used as a warg chew toy again. He feared whatever had clung to Azog’s weapons. If Kíli’s minor arrow wound could have such devastating effects, he did not want to see what the poison might have done had it entered so close to the heart. Even though the Elf Healer – and Óin still could not understand how his method had even _worked_ – had healed Thorin’s worst injury, the Dwarf would still be watchful of any lingering infections.

Fíli’s leg had been set under less than ideal conditions, but Rhonith – or Geira, as Lord Dáin apparently insisted – did know what she was doing after all, and after a quick examination, Bofur had been set to the task of carving a proper splint and a crutch for Fíli to lean on while it healed.

For Ori, Óin could do very little, as the lad slept peacefully and required nothing more than observation. Nestor claimed that the broken ribs had been mended as much as possible and that he could find no other internal damages aside from bruising which would heal in time, but Óin wasn’t sure how much stock to put in this ‘Sight’ ability of the Elf’s. He’d be much happier when Ori could tell them whether he felt anything was wrong. Careful palpation of the area had not revealed any damage, but without actually cutting him up and checking, they had no way of being sure.

Nori’s knee simply needed time, but the Thief had an uncanny ability to move around an injury, and Óin was not too worried about the middle Ri-son, who had already left the tent for destinations unknown.

Dori had earned himself a minor concussion, but nothing serious, and the tailor would be up and about in a few hours thanks to the hardy constitution of their race.

 

* * *

 

When Gandalf had delivered Bilbo to relative safety, he bunked down in Nestor’s healing tent, still feeling weakened by the perils of Dol Guldur. He did not allow himself more than a few hours of rest, however, before he begged a bowl of breakfast off Maeassel in the dense fog of the morning and began making his way to the Gates of Erebor. Smaug’s malice still hung insidiously in the air, and the wizard shuddered as the Darkness made his Dol Guldur wounds twinge in remembered agony. He was a Maia, but this body – though far more resilient than the old man he portrayed – was still a body made of flesh and blood and he did not relish pain in any form.  
Only Balin saw fit to question his intended destination, but with no more than the slight raise of a single bushy eyebrow at the wizard’s passing. Gandalf gave him a somewhat conspiratorial nod, which Balin returned, before skilfully diverting the attention of Dáin and his Lords from the path to Erebor. There was much to do after a war, after all, and cleansing the Mountain was an urgent task to his mind as well as Gandalf’s.

 

* * *

 

 

Legolas watched as Rhonith’s chest rose and fell slowly. He had covered her with his fur cloak, after he had caught her shivering once under the blanket. Not quite knowing what to do with himself, he had settled for washing the blood and dirt out of her long hair, before brushing the mithril strands until they shone. Nestor’s assistant returned after delivering the miruvor and Rhonith was now dressed in a plain shift, loose around her body, rather than her usual tunic and leggings. He slowly traced the shell of her ear, wanting her to open her blue eyes and smile sleepily at him like she sometimes did in the mornings when he managed to wake beside her. As he sat there, a great many thoughts flitted through his brain; though he tried to shy away from the agony he had felt when he thought her dead upon the Tower. She had always seemed slightly indestructible to him, her stories of her travels never involving her own injuries if she could help it. That had not stopped him worrying, imagining her dying in a thousand ways, of course, but it had lent her a certain invulnerability that had been stripped away entirely now. He wanted to climb onto the cot with her, wrap himself around her, and never let anything harm her ever again, but even as the tantalizing idea entered his head, he chastised himself for it. He had pushed aside the puzzle of the missing scale – he had not seen it in person for almost five centuries after all, she might have found a way to remove it – and eventually fell into a light sleep himself. Legolas did not wake when Thranduil returned in the early morning hours, sleeping well into the morning.

 

* * *

 

Bofur, Bombur and Bifur had not slept in the King’s tent that night, instead bedding down with some of Dáin’s soldiers near the kitchen tents. It had been very late before the toymaker and the Lord Cantor – Bifur’s new title – returned from scouring the field, and it was a rather despondent pair that finally arrived at Bombur’s pot, chilled and miserable. The three cousins tried to cheer each other up, but the lack of the wee Hobbit weighed heavily on their hearts.

As the morning sun grew stronger, Bombur returned to the mess tents to lend a hand – although his ankle was sprained, the Lord Architect of Erebor could still stir a kettle and ladle out gruel and stew for the workers. Sending off his brother and cousin with warm breakfast for the rest of their Company, Bombur found himself under the scrutiny of a bushy-browed Dwarf in an Iron Hills uniform. Just as the stranger’s gaze was beginning to be uncomfortable – Bombur was inherently shy, a trait that only seemed to disappear when he was commanding a kitchen – the Iron Hills Dwarf broke into a smile.

“It is you!” she exclaimed, smiling like the break of dawn. Bombur boggled; fairly certain he hadn’t ever met the Dwarf before.

“It is me?” he asked quietly, confused as to her sudden enthusiasm.

“Bombur, the cook in Kjalarr’s Food Hall what made them delicious gravy n steak pies,” she said loudly. Bombur felt more than a little uncomfortable with the sudden attention from the nearby soldiers.

“Aye, that’d be me. Who’s asking?” he replied briskly.

“Oh, Kamma, daughter of Kára, at your service.” She bowed quickly, and it struck Bombur suddenly how _young_ she seemed; a bit like an excited puppy. “Kjalarr is my uncle, but I remembered you cause my sister used one of your pies to woo her One.” Bombur was not quite certain how one of his pies – filling, but certainly not very romantic or classy cuisine – had been instrumental in this sister’s love story, but he smiled kindly at the young soldier. The soldiers around her were now pestering her for the story, while Bombur returned to his ladle with a gentle smile on his lips. It was not the Battle-Spoon he used, Athalrún’s gift hung proudly from his belt, scrupulously cleaned of any and all traces of battle, but it did the trick. As he had so often done during their journey, his thumb traced the small runes that spelled out his family’s names and sent a thought far East, wondering if his beloved Athalrún had received the news of their victory over Smaug already.

 

* * *

 

 

Balin had, once he had awoken and found himself with a hearty serving of honeyed oatmeal courtesy of Bombur, who had sent his brother to the King’s tent loaded with bowls and a large kettle of the nourishing porridge, immediately set off to begin the job of making the Mountain habitable. Dáin’s soldiers, as well as many of the Elves, were still scouring the field of battle, and the Orc corpses had been piled high in the vast trench they had dug on the morning after Smaug’s death. Balin had noticed that the Elves had burned the dragon a second time, though he hadn’t thought to ask why, but it was clear that the bottom layer of ash in the trench was older than the layer just below the corpses. He idly wondered what they would use to burn the bodies of their slain enemies, but simply added it to the mental list of things he had to make sure of. The list was growing alarmingly long. Balin managed to catch Glóin’s attention; the merchant was used to outfitting caravans that had to be self-sufficient for months and had been instrumental in ensuring that their own expedition had been as well-equipped as they had when they left Bree. Glóin was immediately put in charge of writing down a list of foodstuffs and the like that they would reasonably need to source in order to feed those who were staying in Erebor through winter and spring. Given that it was already several months too late to sow the spring barley – even if they had not been in the middle of dead land – they would need to rely on purchased grain and livestock until next year’s harvest. Balin knew that Dís’ first caravan would be populated by builders and miners mainly; those who were needed to get the Mountain operating as a mine once more. The Princess had never been stupid, and she would know that their farmers – few as they were – would be more useful waiting out the winter in Ered Luin and bringing the first barley harvest along with them when they set off for Erebor in summer.

 

* * *

 

 

Bard was relatively happy with the task he had appointed himself. The Men of Laketown were quick to follow his commands, even though he could see the sorrow in their eyes whenever they came across the body of one of their own. Of course, there were far greater numbers of dead Elves and Dwarrow, but still they would have to tell the widows and mothers of forty Lakemen that their loved ones had perished. It showed that the Men had been the poorest trained and least armoured, although he felt quite grateful for Bronwe’s quiet orders to intersperse the more vulnerable Men along the ranks of the hardier soldiers. His heart broke when he caught sight of young Sewine, who had been a favoured play-mate of Sigrid and who had died with a spear through the stomach. Orcs had definitely played with him before the boy died, Bard could tell, bending to close his unseeing eyes gently. Gesturing to Sewine’s body, Bard sent the quiet furrier off to find the boy’s father who was still searching the field for his son. With a nod, Ceadda left, his straw-coloured hair blowing in the wind behind him, a trait he shared with his eldest son Beorn, who looked forlornly at the corpse of his dead friend.

“Sigrid will not be happy with me,” he sighed, looking to Bard. The Bargeman sighed, shaking his head in agreement with Beorn. He knew that Sigrid had tried to convince Sewine to stay in Mirkwood, had told him he was too young for war, and when all her pleas had failed she had beseeched Beorn to look after him.

“She will know that it was not your fault he died,” Bard rumbled quietly, but Beorn did not look convinced.

“It is a comfort that Sehild will not see her only child dead in this manner,” Beorn said, as though trying to convince himself. Sehild had died the previous autumn, stepping on the venomous spikes of the pale spine-fish. Bard silently patted his back, trying to impart a little comfort to the young man, though he knew that losing a friend – violent or not – was not something that could be soothed away. Only time would heal the wound, though he quietly dreaded having to watch Leif realise that his only remaining family was gone. “We will do right by him, Beorn, I promise.”

Watching the realisation on Leif’s face when Ceadda returned with the fisherman was exactly as horrible as Bard had envisioned. Leif crashed to his knees beside his son’s corpse, his wailing unceasing and refused to move from his prone position, clutching the boy’s body to his chest and rocking him back and forth.

 

* * *

 

“Did you bring a true Singer, Cousin? I fear this task will need more than Bifur’s talents,” Balin asked quietly, once Dáin’s lords had left them to pursue their own tasks. Dáin shot him a puzzled look, but nodded contemplatively as he turned to the Mountain. The breath of coming snow hung in the air.

“Aye, Cousin, we have a wee Singer along.” He looked tellingly at the Mountain, and Balin nodded. For all his brash and shameless behaviours, Dáin was a shrewd and careful leader, whose lands had more than prospered under his rule. He whistled a loud signal, but Balin had to hide a smile when he spotted the lad that came running. The young Dwarf could hardly have passed fifty, though he looked like he might aspire to Bombur’s considerable girth when he grew older. “Hlein,” Dáin greeted, as the youth stopped before them, “This is Lord Balin Fundinul. He requires a word with Flóki, go fetch him. Then fetch us Lord Bifur of the Company.” The page bowed once, before scurrying off faster than should have been possible with his rotund body. Balin chuckled. They had all been surprised at Bombur’s speed in a run, but it seemed this youth had the same talent. The Dwarf who found them in Dáin’s tent later, poring over sheaves of parchment detailing supplies, however, was the skinniest Dwarf Balin had ever seen. Flóki was relatively tall for a Dwarf, though shorter than Kíli and Thorin, and he had the same sort of wiry body as Nori. His personality was no match for the confident Thief, however, for Flóki was a twitchy sort, nervous of disposition and oddly high-strung for a Child of Mahal. When he spoke, he seemed to have a slight stutter or lisp, and Balin wondered how he had ever been accepted as an apprentice Singer. He shot an incredulous look at Dáin, but the Lord of the Iron Hills ignored him completely.

“Flóki,” Dáin rumbled loudly, jumping up and clapping the thin Dwarf hard on the back. Balin caught Flóki’s wince, and felt for him. Dáin’s exuberant greetings could be painful even with armour, and Flóki had very little padding to cushion the blow. “Meet Lord Balin, King Thorin’s **Uzugbad**[198].” Balin stood, reaching out to grasp Flóki’s arm in the traditional greeting, but when the Dwarf clasped his arm, he saw the peculiar markings that adorned his hands. The black lines travelled up Flóki’s arms, ancient verse in Khuzdul longhand – a written form of Khuzdul as old as Belegost, and these days used only for the most important of documents.

“Beautiful,” Balin breathed, his eyes alight with curiosity as Flóki easily pushed his sleeves up to reveal more of the inked script. Inked into his flesh was a few lines from the story of Thrasir, the greatest Cantor of Khazad-dûm, which had been one of Skaro’s favourite poems, and Balin felt a stab of bitter-sweet remembrance when he thought of the way his dead love used to recite it in front of the fire on long nights of sleeplessness. He sighed, smiling softly.

“Thank you, Lord Balin,” the Singer nodded, losing a little of his twitchy nervousness in the face of Balin’s admiration. “I am Flóki, son of Loni, at your service,” he bowed.

“Balin Fundinul, at yours and your family’s,” Balin replied. “I am told you are a Singer?”

“I am. How may I be of service?” Flóki asked quietly. Whatever it was, he would be happy to help. He wanted to stay in Erebor, if he could, away from the long shadow of his father, the Cantor of the Iron Hills. Perhaps if he pleased Lord Balin, the Dwarf would put in a good word for him with the King, Flóki hoped.

“Tharkûn, the wizard, has gone to Erebor to see if he can cleanse the dragon’s taint from her halls. I want you to assist him and Lord Bifur, using the Way of Mahal to cleanse our home and prepare the Mountain for our triumphant return. I will see no echo of Smaug linger in her stone,” Balin’s tone was hard, but Flóki straightened eagerly. “The King will see you suitably rewarded, of course,” Balin added, but young Flóki was already nodding.

“I will see it done, my Lord,” he vowed, mind already spinning with plans for what he would need to bring and how he would begin.

“I ask that you speak of this to no one. We will need the main Halls cleansed first, so we can begin to move the wounded indoors before we see true winter descend upon us. Be aware that this job will not be easy nor quickly done,” Balin cautioned, relaxing minutely when a look of pleasure flashed across Flóki’s face, “You will not be returning to the Iron Hills until spring at the earliest.”

“I understand, my Lord,” Flóki bowed again, triumphant happiness filling his soul. Behind him, Dáin smiled, slightly smug. When he was talking about his Heart-Craft or performing his duties as a Singer, Flóki was a different Dwarf entirely, all his tics and nerves abandoned and his speech clear and unencumbered by his lisp.

“Lord Bifur of Erebor to see you, Lord Dáin,” the sentry posted outside the tent announced, before Bifur entered, shooting Balin a questioning glance.

“Ah, Bifur, there you are. This is Flóki, son of Loni, Lord Dáin’s Singer for this trip,” Balin explained calmly. Bifur’s bushy eyebrow rose slightly, indicating that he was listening and waiting for Balin to get to the point. The old advisor chuckled slightly, but the two had known each other for many years and he knew that Bifur’s gestures and expressions were meant respectfully… at least towards those the Dwarf actually liked. “Gandalf has gone to cleanse the mountain of Smaug’s magic. I need you and Flóki to bless the stone for our return,” Balin finished. Bifur nodded calmly, before turning to Flóki and asking something that neither Dáin nor Balin understood, but the younger Dwarf bowed deeply.

“The honour is mine, Cantor,” he said. Bifur nodded once, flashing a quick sign of agreement at Balin before nodding to both Lords and making his exit.

“Was he testing my knowledge of High Khuzdul?” the young Dwarf asked. Balin sighed heavily, his hand landing on Flóki’s thin shoulder.

“Nay, lad. Bifur took an axe to the head nigh on 90 years ago now. If not for Prince Víli being a close personal friend of his cousin, and my brother Dwalin demanding Bifur be seen by a second Healer, he would have been declared dead. Many of our people believe it was only through the Grace of Mahal that Bifur lived. When the healers were finally sure he would live, he could no longer speak everyday Khuzdul, he retained only the language of Cantors. He relies on his cousin to interpret if he wishes to speak or on Iglishmêk signing. The language of Singers is not something most Dwarrow can learn, after all.” Flóki nodded, satisfied by the explanation. He idly thought that he ought to thank his father for his own knowledge of High Khuzdul, but that thought rankled with too much bitterness for him to voice it. Instead he bowed once more towards Lord Balin.

“Best you get along then, Flóki. Finish your preparations for the **Uhzagh-nat**[199] ceremony tonight, and then collect what remedies you need from the Quartermaster. You may spend the time until the ceremony helping Lord Bifur and Tharkûn,” Dáin said, not unkindly, sending Flóki off with another hard pat on the back that made the Singer wince. Looking to Balin, Dáin, smiled mischievously, “I had hoped you would take him off my hands, cousin, free of charge.” Balin simply raised an eyebrow, making Dáin sigh heavily, “The boy is a good Singer, but his father is the Cantor for the Iron Hills, and to him, Flóki is never good enough. I have tried to mediate, but in truth, I think distance will be the best cure for their enmity.”

“Shall we return to the pesky matter of supplies then, Cousin, and rest assured that young Flóki will find himself settled quickly in Erebor, far from parental disdain.” Balin said dryly, making Dáin’s booming laugh echo in the small tent, as the two returned to the matter at hand, working out how much foodstuff and other goods Erebor would need to be sent from the Iron Hills before deep winter closed the roads.

 

* * *

 

 

Nori had returned to Erebor unnoticed. He had carefully made his way back to where they had made their camp, fetching a clean – even in a besieged mountain, Dori was not about to let them get off without doing laundry if she could, he thought wryly – change of clothes for each of his siblings. He also swung past the Healing Halls, considering whether Óin would have use for any of the supplies that remained there. The only thing he could think of was bandage cloth, so he snagged a few rolls of the long cloths. Bandages were usually woven by first year apprentice weavers or children, as it didn’t matter if the weave was inconsistent or there were holes in the fabric. He smirked slightly at the thought that _Dori,_ who had only just begun going to school when the Dragon attacked, might have woven some of the cloth lying around in the Ruby Ward. Stuffing the rolls into a sack on top of the clothes, he slung his pack onto his back and made his way out of the mountain, whistling a jaunty tune.

 

* * *

 

 

Bofur returned to the field, though he was no longer looking for survivors, just carting corpses back for the pyres. There were far fewer Men, Dwarrow or Elves than Orcs, but even though he now had the light to help, he still did not find the one he was looking for.

 

* * *

 

 

Beorn the skin changer stayed away from most of the soldiers, eyeing the Men warily. He had brought many half-dead and dying men from the field of battle, and he had spotted the pale form of Pethril in the arms of her oblivious love. He had watched from afar as the Dwarf-King’s body was brought down from Ravenhill and he had gone up to look at the corpse of Azog and sneer at his dead enemy. Snaps of his powerful jaws had severed the fiend’s arm, blade embedded, and Beorn had entrusted his trophy, along with Azog’s head, to the safekeeping of Glóin, who had seemed to him the most sensible option of all the Company. Glóin had accepted the grisly trophies with all the solemnity the situation required, and in the glance he shot Beorn’s manacles had been the promise of long-awaited release from the hated shackles that reminded him of his old life. Returning to the field in his human shape, Beorn silently began carting bodies away. He did not distinguish between handling Orcs or Men, as he could see some Men do; refusing to do as much as touch the vile killers. To him, every dead Orc he could throw on the pyre was a stab of vengeful satisfaction. He had killed many himself, torn arms and heads off with impunity as he roared his challenge at them and their wargs. The corpses of the giant wolf-beasts would be skinned, he knew, before the bodies were burnt. No sense in wasting good fur – and whatever else could be said about wargs, their winter fur was _warm_ – and Beorn carefully placed those corpses in a different pile away from the main Orc pyre.

“Why are you stacking the wolves separately?” a blonde-haired Man asked. Beorn looked at him considering his reply, but the Man did not flinch under his bushy-browed stare. Beorn could respect that. The Man had the look of the Horselords about him, whose lands were not too far from Beorn’s own territory, and he had had cordial interactions with those people.

“They are not wolves. Wargs. As cruel and vicious as their masters, but the fur is good on them. I’m sure someone here has the skill to skin and preserve the pelts,” Beorn rumbled. The Rohir grinned, sticking out his hand. Beorn did not squeeze it as hard as he might have.

“Lucky me, then. Ceadda, furrier, at your service,” Ceadda bowed, before turning to the wargs once more. “These are big pelts. You could line many cloaks with them, even with all the holes in some of them,” he mused. “Will anyone mind me removing them?”

“I do not own the kills, nor would I trust anyone who claimed them.” Beorn did not care much about the furrier’s dilemma, but Ceadda nodded thoughtfully.

“If I give a pelt or two to each of these Lords, and keep the rest for sale, none may say I have been ungenerous,” he mused. Calling for another Man, who resembled him enough to be closely related, the furrier began explaining how he wanted the beasts skinned. Beorn smiled slightly; the Man Ceadda was enthusiastic about his work, at least, as he and the other began pulling out knives, tutting to each other about those pelts with many holes from spears or swords. The skin changer returned to the killing field, bringing them more carcasses and watching the pile of skinned wargs grow. He idly wondered if warg was edible, but decided that the Dwarrow and Eldar could determine their enemies’ suitability as sustenance without his input. He did not have much desire for their meat either way.

 

* * *

 

 

As he made his way slowly through the Camp, Nori waved at Flóki, whom he knew from trips to the Iron Hills. The skinny Singer greeted him heartily, before speeding off towards the Gates where Nori had waved to the waiting Bifur. Nori had found himself a proper walking stick in one of Erebor’s Healing wards, and used it skilfully to keep his weight off his injured knee. In one of his numerous pockets, his free hand was wrapped around a small, finely carved figurine. The figurine was flat, no longer than his smallest finger and if he had taken it out to look, he would have held a pure black stone with thin white bands, carved into a feather. The black agate feather, the symbol of his position, never left his person, either living in pockets usually sewn shut or wrapped in leather and concealed as a pendant or part of a knife sheath.

 

* * *

 

 

Compared to the upset caused by finding young Sewine’s body, the silence surrounding the Master’s death was deafening. Alfrid was nowhere to be found, dead or alive, though a torn arm believed to have belonged to him was found next to a troll with bits of fabric stuck in its teeth. The Master had been shot, toppling heavily from his horse and then impaled, but it was evident that the poisoned arrows had killed him rather than the afterthought of the spear. His flabby flesh had turned an interesting blue-white colour, and the skin was flaking off in places. None who saw him wanted to touch him, so instead of carrying him from the field, the corpse-retrievers had created a stretcher of sorts from spears and a couple of torn cloaks they had found on the field, and used their weapons to roll him onto the fabric. As they carried him towards the section where the dead Men were lain out for identification by loved ones, they passed a group of Elves who immediately began whispering furiously with each other in their own language. Finally, the one Bard had been introduced to as Faindirn was pushed forward by a brown-haired female, speaking Westron in low tones.

“Lord Bard, the Man you carry… I know he was your leader, but you should burn his corpse with the Orcs… his flesh bears signs of a dark poison, which will leech into the ground if he is buried, or foul the water if he is laid to rest in your lake, even if you burn his death-boat.” Faindirn shot a dark look at the body of the Master, bloated and discoloured, and smiled grimly. Behind him, the brown-haired female was nodding silently. Bard, who had only seen the elf as a fun-loving and easy-going person was immediately on guard. The unaccustomed seriousness in Faindirn’s demeanour made his every instinct sit up and take notice. He nodded, an equally grim look on his visage, and directed the Men to follow the elf’s orders. The appearance of the Master’s corpse made ripples of gossip through the camp, and Bard knew it was followed by yet more whispers of his impending kingship. He sighed. There would be no way to avoid being handed the ruling power now, even if he had never desired it, but he would do the job as best he could, he decided, picking up the mantle of his forebears.

 

* * *

 

As Gandalf walked through the dark and silent halls of Erebor, he could feel Smaug’s insidious magic battering against his mind, but the wizard had come prepared for a long battle. While he walked through the mountain, following the reddish orange strands of fiery magic, he had found the room where Kíli and Dori had made attempts at curing Smaug’s hide to make leather, an idea that made him shudder. Not even the haughtiest craftsmen of Gondolin had dared use any part of a dragon in their creations, and Gandalf quietly swore to himself that he would ensure that Thorin did not try.

 

* * *

 

 

When Legolas woke around midday, Rhonith was still asleep, but her wound looked fine; well on its way to healing, and he tip-toed out of the tent to avoid waking Thranduil who had stumbled back without his notice at some point. Outside the tent, he greeted Captain Bronwe, who directed him to Maeassel’s delicious stew pots with the word that the baker had recently taken a large amount of currant buns from her field oven.

Happily chewing on a bun, the Elvenprince greeted those he passed, trying to find the members of his group. He felt slightly guilty for not having checked up on them the night before, but when he found Curulhénes, seated next to the wagon that would transport Thalawen’s body back to the Forest and eating her own lunch, he saw no blame in her eyes. Erfaron – who was never far from her side – greeted him with a friendly wave, and accepted half a currant bun happily.

“You are well?” Legolas asked, after he had greeted Thalawen’s lifeless body with the words that would speed her soul to the Halls of Mandos.

“Thalawen was our only loss, Commander,” Curulhénes reported, accepting her own half bun with a gentle smile. “Arastor and Tuilinthel went with Amathanar when he asked for trackers to hunt down stray packs of Orcs, and Faindirn is trying to sweet-talk his way back into Alfirin’s good graces.” Beside her, Erfaron made a sound that was half snort half giggle, and Legolas could not help but agree.

“I was unaware Alfirin _had_ good graces when it came to our Faindirn?” he replied, making them both laugh.

“Lady Rhonith is well, I hope?” she asked, thinking back to the lifeless form he had carried off the field of battle the evening before. Legolas nodded slightly, but his friends could see the worry in his features.

“She should recover fully, Nestor says. A stab-wound in her side, but not that deep or hard to mend, though she lost a lot of blood,” he clarified. “She has not yet awoken, however.” Erfaron’s hands formed the ‘good health’ sign and Legolas felt grateful for his friends’ support. Curulhénes trailed her fingers gently along the tip of his ear, before changing the subject easily, knowing that he did not wish to dwell on anything bad happening to the Noldorin elleth.

“Will we be going home today or tomorrow, _caun vell_?” Curulhénes wondered, as two grim-faced ellons carried a third towards their wagon, putting him onto the fur-covered bed next to Thalawen. One of them bowed to the Prince. Legolas returned the motion with a respectful nod.

“ _Arradir i eneth dîn. Gwannast vê_.” The blonde ellon said. “ _Im Hatholchon a vellon nîn Thínion_.” The dark-haired one nodded.

“ _Govano i nothrim în adh i mellyn în mi Mannos_ , _Arradir_ ,” the three friends said quietly. The blonde ellon smiled sadly.

“ _Le i hervenn Cellingwen_.” Legolas said, recognising the name. Thínion nodded. With a polite goodbye, the two companions strode off, probably to find more corpses.

With a sigh Legolas shook his head, returning to Curulhénes’ earlier question. “I don’t know, Curu,” he admitted, “Tomorrow I would guess, but Ada and Nestor worked themselves to exhaustion trying to save Rhonith’s kinsmen, so until the King awakes, there is no set time. If you wouldn’t mind, spread the word that the dead are going home tomorrow, however,” he added, turning to leave with another sad smile in Thalawen’s direction. “Even if Ada is not awake to lead them, I will not let them remain in this desolate land longer than necessary.” He might not wish to be their ruler, but Legolas did know his duty to his people.

“ _Ben iest lîn, caun vell. **[200]**_ ” the red-haired elleth said, bowing her head respectfully.

 

 

 

###### notes:

[198] "Uzugbad" is an acronym for "uzrakê, ugsharê, uzbadê," a phrase meaning "My Master, My Teacher, My Leader."

This is an honorific title given to scholarly leaders of the Dwarvish community.

[199] Greatest war/battle-End – a ceremony to mark the ending of a great war or battle and honour the fallen, the Singers attempt to aid souls who have died chaotically find their way to the Halls of Waiting.

[200] As you wish, Beloved Prince


	32. Song and Ceremony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 25th november - afternoon  
> More glimpses of Dwarrow culture, and some loved ones awaken from sleep.

Inside Erebor, Bifur was singing. He was determined– at the very least – to begin the cleansing of the Entrance Hall before he went to the Sundown Ceremony. When his songs took hold, he could feel the stone reverberate around him with the words.

 _Stone of the Mother, hear my call._  
_Your children, your children are coming home!_  
_Cradle our weary bodies in your sheltering Stone,_  
_O Mother of all, and feel peace once more._  
_Let go the dark years of despair and loneliness_  
_the shadows that haunt your halls_  
_and let your light shine forth!_  
_O Stone Mother, hear our call,_  
_as we sing your praises,_  
_as we reveal your beauty!_  
_Your Children are coming, O Mother of Stone,_  
_and seek shelter in your Great Love!_

Bifur moved slowly through the cavernous space, letting the song fill him until it echoed in his bones. The stone absorbed the tune, the rise and fall of its Cantor’s Voice as the Way of Mahal once more filled the Lonely Mountain with its sound.

 

* * *

 

Walking into Erebor was an awe-inspiring sensation to Flóki. He was greeted, not only by the Voice of Bifur, the strength of the Cantor’s Awakening Song wrapping itself around his heart and making him feel welcome, but also by the faint sound of the Mountain’s own Voice, caressing him like a long-lost friend. At first, he did not even notice the physical presence of Lord Bifur, content to let the peace that was already beginning to suffuse the Entrance Hall to fill his soul. The hand on his shoulder made the young Singer flinch away almost violently, but Bifur’s kind smile did not waver. Instead, he gestured simply ‘ _join_ ’ at Flóki, repeating the gesture more emphatically when the younger Dwarf did not immediately comply.  

“You mean for me to sing?” Flóki was flabbergasted. He had assumed that he would mostly be there to provide support, not to be a part of the Awakening Song. Cantor Bifur’s Song never faltered, but he lifted his hand to press gently against Flóki’s throat, with calloused fingertips writing the runes that meant sing.

**Ikmith.**

Flóki Sang.

 

* * *

 

Gandalf, in the Treasury, was also hard at work. The orange magic that was Smaug’s last revenge hung heavy in the Treasury, though it had been dragged through most of Erebor, if not by Smaug, then by the Company carting around bits of treasure as they explored. The first part of Gandalf’s task was to separate these strands and bring them with him to the Treasury, which sounded easy enough. In reality, it was anything but; accomplished by standing in the Treasury and carefully winding up each strand around a core of his own power before wrapping it in protective magic to stop it unspooling and trying to escape from its imminent destruction. As the ephemeral spools of pure power collected around him, keeping them contained grew harder. Deeply anchored to his own magic, his attempts to purge Smaug’s taint from the gold stretched his mind until it seemed to encompass the whole of Erebor, showing him pockets of dragon magic like fog hanging in the rooms. The Treasury was the most polluted, here the fog-like spells had the consistency of thick smoke, almost obscuring the gold from his vision entirely. Pulling a few more threads of magic made the fog inside the Treasury whirl and spin, almost making him nauseated just from watching the sinuous shapes he could almost recognise as they twined together and fell apart like a great sea of serpentine creatures. The smog coalesced slowly. When it had formed a ghastly echo of Smaug, strong and fearless as he had been when the Company first encountered his earthly form, the Dragon laughed coldly. It did not speak, but Gandalf could feel the mockery emanating from every scale. About an hour after he had first entered his own trance, trying to unravel the threads of magic, he could feel a different presence. The stone walls around him seemed to shudder once, twice and then he could see a change in the pattern of smog. It almost looked like the walls were bathed in blue light, and where Smaug’s orange magic tongued the blue light, magic crackled. He caught snatches of song that he did not understand, but the songs made the blue light stronger. He had not left the massive space since he had entered it in the early morning hours, and dusk was now fast approaching, but the Wizard was almost unaware of the passage of time.

 

* * *

 

 

“How many dead, Nestor?” the Prince asked quietly, when he entered the Healer’s tent.

“97 Dwarrow, by my latest report, and 127 Elves,” Nestor said sadly. “Less than a tenth of our forces have died, about one fifth of the Dwarrow Lord’s, but we will hear _naergynnath **[201]** _ when we return to our Halls.”

“ _Rîn uireb_[202].” Legolas swore softly. Nestor nodded. The names of the dead would be remembered in songs, just like the names of those who had died in the attack on Dol Guldur, or those who had died in other wars the Elves had been involved in.

When he had walked through the camp twice, Legolas felt he had performed his duties as well as could be expected. He did not need to do much to keep the camp running – that was what Galion was for, after all – but it was his duty in Ada’s absence to greet those who were wounded, to ensure his people that their King cared about them.

 

Dwalin had fallen asleep at some point in the morning, and managed to get about three hours of rest before the crick in his neck woke him. With a wince, he got to his feet to seek out some kind of sustenance, and offer his services where needed. Looking back, he allowed himself a moment of sappiness, covering the young princes with the blankets they had pushed down to the foot of the bed. Kíli lay on his back where the healers had put him, while Fíli was sprawled across the available space, including his brother’s chest. Dwalin smiled softly at the familiar sight. So many nights, that had been the last thing they did before retiring to their own bedroom; check on the lads and resettling their blankets. The thought made him turn to look at Thorin before ducking out of the tent flap, but the King’s eyes were closed, his face relaxed in drug-induced slumber.

 

* * *

 

Thorin himself could easily see the thoughts passing through Dwalin’s mind as he watched the bald Dwarf get up from his seat at his bedside, but he kept his eyes almost closed and his breathing steady. Dwalin squeezed Óin’s shoulder as he passed. The long glance back that Dwalin shot him before he ducked out of the tent gave birth to a tiny seed of hope in Thorin’s chest; perhaps he could eventually earn Dwalin’s love once more? The words Dwalin had said before they had joined the battle rung in his memory, but Thorin knew better than to believe all was forgotten or even forgiven. Dwalin had allowed him to hold him the night before, to seek familiar comfort, but Thorin was under no illusion that it meant anything more. He had hurt Dwalin, hurt him with his deeds and his words, and for long, broody hours of the afternoon, Thorin considered it quite fair if Dwalin never did forgive him. He was never going to forgive himself, after all, for behaving so abominably towards his One. He might earn the forgiveness of his Company, for his betrayal of their trust had been less severe, and he might even be able to make amends with Master Baggins, but it would take time.

When Thorin felt that had spent long enough staring at the cloth ceiling, he got up with a groan. Óin pursed his lips, but he did hand the King a walking stick, knowing as well as Thorin that it was imperative he be seen alive and healing among his people.

“Going to speak with the Elvenking,” Thorin rumbled in low tones when he took the stick, testing the various aches that made themselves known when he tried to move. His foot was not happy, but Thorin ignored the pain of walking; it was less than the agony he had expected.

“Walk only from here to Thranduil’s tent,” Óin admonished, “take a rest when you get there, and then you can head to Dáin’s tent afterwards, or down to the **Uhzagh-nat**!”

With a wave, Thorin staggered out of the tent. His hip twinged, but the pain was not as bad as when he had woken up on the Carrock, so he considered it a point in his favour and grit his teeth against it. His ribs –he had no idea when they had taken a beating – were definitely protesting moving with anything approaching speed, so Thorin could only move slowly through the camp. He greeted Bofur and Bombur with a nod, and passed Dáin in the distance, but did not have the lung capacity to yell out for his cousin’s attention, nor much desire to make such a spectacle of himself. Locating the finely dyed yellow tent that belonged to Thranduil was easy; he had recognised Captain Bronwe on guard outside, one arm in a sling, and a serene look on his face as he nibbled some pastry or other. The mouth-watering scent of the baked good had Thorin’s stomach rumbling.

 

* * *

 

Returning to his Ada’s tent, Legolas found that the Elvenking had awoken, and was conversing in low tones with Galion, probably receiving the same reports of the dead that Nestor had relayed to him. A glance towards the cot in the corner showed that Rhonith still had not stirred, and Legolas frowned.

“Should she not be awake, Ada?” he asked, trailing his fingers over Thranduil’s ear in familiar greeting.

“Our Rhonith will wake when she is ready,” Thranduil said quietly. “Nestor had a look at her while you were gone, and he said that she is simply in need of rest, and her mind is seizing this chance to get it.” Pouring them each a small measure of wine – their stocks were running low – Thranduil waved off Galion. “Spread the word; we are bringing our dead home tomorrow morning. Those wounded who can travel will join us, those who cannot will stay in Erebor until they are healed.” The Elvenking himself would not be going back to his Realm along with the dead of his people, for there was still the matter of the Arkenstone as well as diplomatic treaties to settle, but Galion, the competent Seneschal, would be leading the Elves home. Thranduil had initially wanted to send Legolas home, but if Rhonith did not wake, his son would probably choose his heart’s call over duty’s he knew, and stay with her. If she did wake, he still might wish to stay, but in that case, Thranduil was certain he could convince Rhonith to go back to the forest with Legolas. She understood what the gesture of caring for their dead would mean to his Silvans, something that Legolas would probably forget to consider in his decision.

“I have already given the orders to make ready the wagons for the dead,” Legolas said quietly. “Our people will want to see you, Ada.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Hungry, King Thorin?” the Captain asked, obviously bemused as he scrutinized the Dwarf before him.

“Aye. Haven’t eaten much yet, I’m afraid. I didn’t even realise.” Thorin admitted sheepishly. The Captain just smiled, holding the flap of the tent open for the one-armed King.

“I’ll send someone to find you a meal; you look like you need to sit down anyway. The King and the Prince are inside with Lady Rhonith,” Bronwe said, not unkindly, and Thorin felt a slight moment of relief that the Elf did not seem to hold a grudge for the insults he had hurled against his King. With a respectful – and quietly grateful – nod, Thorin entered the Elvenking’s tent.

 

* * *

 

 

When the Entrance Hall had been filled with the Sound of the Voices, Bifur and Flóki moved on to the old Healing Wards, as Balin had asked them to prepare the Mountain for receiving many wounded. By the time that was done, Flóki broke the silence once more, not in song, but with a quiet question.

“Would you want to take over the duty of the **Uhzagh-nat**?” he said, but Bifur signed his declination. Instead, he sung the first few lines of another Song, and Flóki nodded, recognising the Song of Souls. “I will leave you to bring life back to the Stones,” he stammered, making his way back out of the Healing Wards. Bifur stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“ ** _You have done well today, Singer Flóki, Erebor thanks you._** ” He said quietly, the High Khuzdul flowing musically from his lips. The younger Dwarf smiled and bowed.

“ ** _Thank you, Lord Bifur._** ” Filled with pride, Flóki made his way out of Erebor to fulfil his sacred duty at sundown. Bifur was a better master than his Adad had ever been, he felt, for the wild-looking Dwarf with the voice of a Cantor did not disparage Flóki’s skills like Loni was wont to do, and as a consequence, Flóki felt less nervous about his Song and performed his tasks flawlessly. He would like to stay in Erebor, he decided. Studying under Bifur would be far preferable to returning to Loni’s scorn. With his shoulders squared and a determined gait, the young Singer walked through the camp.

 

* * *

 

 

In the other tent, Kíli woke slowly. “Ori?” he asked, turning his face to look for the slight scribe. Fíli blocked his view, but Kíli was too tired to move him out of the way.

“Kíli!” Fíli gasped, sitting up and staring at his brother’s sleepy grin.

“Hey, Fee, miss me?” Kíli smiled, letting go of his breath in a large gasp in the next second as Fíli threw himself onto his chest in a massive hug.

“You almost died, you clot!” he shouted, seemingly unable to decide whether to punch his little brother or hold him tight forever. Hugging won and Kíli weakly patted his back. If Fíli’s tears wetted his tunic, neither Prince mentioned it.

“How’s it going in here,” Nori poked his head through the tent opening. He had been on his way to check on his claimed sister when he heard Fíli’s exclamation. A slight smile showed on his face as he watched the brothers reunite. He had not wanted to think of what Fíli would have done without Kíli’s presence. The younger Prince was not the spare Heir, as he knew Men called it; Kíli’s role in Fíli’s rule was to be his brother’s closest advisor and support, the anvil to Fíli’s hammer. Dwarrow had always known that putting responsibility for a whole people on one Dwarf’s decision-making was irresponsible, and Kíli’s outgoing and exuberant nature was a perfect foil for Fíli’s more serious mien, carefully cultivated over the years to make their adversaries underestimate the younger Prince. A glance showed him Ori was still asleep.

“What is going on Nori?” Fíli asked, when he managed to lift his head from Kíli’s chest, to the younger Dwarf’s amusement. When Kíli caught sight of Nori’s face, his earlier mirth fled like dew in sunlight.

“Our elleth is still unconscious,” Nori sighed. “I was on my way to Thranduil’s tent to see if she had woken up,” he clarified.

“We’re coming too!” Kíli said instantly, forgetting his earlier fatigue and pushing Fíli away so he could sit up and swing his legs over the side of his cot. That’s when he noticed the stump where his lower leg should have been. The young Dwarf paled. “Where’s my foot?” he said, sounding like a small dwarfling in his surprise. The limb did not really hurt, but the confusion was painful.

“They had to take it off,” Fíli replied quietly, using the crutch Bofur had carved to support his own rise from the cot. “The arrow they shot you with was poisoned with something Nestor called Death-Eater. It ate your flesh, and they had to stop it before it reached any further into your body. Dwalin cut off your foot,” he finished, “and the Elvenking kept you from feeling it while Nestor stopped the bleeding and tried to draw out the poison. You’ll be fine, Kee, but it was…” he trailed off, and Nori felt a stab of pity for the Prince, whose face was pale and bloodless as he remembered once more the serious faces the two Elves had worn when they explained what the poison did.

“If not for the Elves, and the Princess’ flask of Miruvor, you would have died a very painful death, **Rayad-dehar**[203] **.** ” Óin said tersely. Fíli could only nod.

“Find me a walking stick,” Kíli said grimly, “I want to see her. And Uncle Thorin.”

 

* * *

 

 

Glóin had, after delivering his preliminary lists of provisions to Balin, joined Bofur’s search for their smallest Companion. In spite of the toymaker’s glum expression, Glóin was certain that Bilbo was alive, and so he spent most of the afternoon asking anyone he met whether they had seen the little Hobbit. He did meet a few who remembered Master Baggins, but none who had seen him after the fighting was over. Sadly, for him, he did not find Curulhénes or one of her unit, who had taken in Master Baggins after Gandalf deposited him in the Elven camp, but Glóin continued his search undaunted by its bleak prospects.

 

* * *

 

 

“It is good to see you properly awake, King Thorin,” came Thranduil’s gentle greeting. Thorin startled out of his contemplation of the mithril-haired peredhel on the cot in the far corner. He was surprised and yet not surprised to find Dori sitting on the edge of the cot, holding her hand. Their history – revealed in the summery peace of Beorn’s home – had given way to a genuine friendship during their journeys, and he had an inkling that Dori had made an official claim of kinship between them.

“Yes,” he replied slowly, greeting his Companion with a nod, before turning to look at the Elvenking. “I thank you for your aid, King Thranduil. It is more than I deserve.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, Thrór was howling in anger at the way he was treating his grandfather’s adversary, but the thought only made Thorin smile. He felt like a new Dwarf, no longer trying to escape the yoke of thoughts that _seemed_ to be his own only three shades darker. He felt lighter than he had in months, even with the worries his madness had created. The loss of his nascent friendship with his neighbouring King pained him, however, for he had actually enjoyed conversing with the elf in the sunlit caverns of the Woodland Palace. The wary look in Thranduil’s eyes softened slightly at his expression of gratitude, however, which Thorin was thankful to see. Perhaps he might also be able to mend these fences. “How is Lady Rhonith?” he asked, making his way slowly towards the only available seat, a small stool next to her cot.

 

* * *

 

 

Entering the Elvenking’s tent, the procession of three Dwarrow, supported by walking sticks and crutches, and followed by a slightly frowning Óin, was greeted with gentle smiles.

“Is she alright, Uncle?” Kíli asked, interrupting the happy exclamations of his own name. Thorin nodded.

“She will be, Kíli, I promise.” The Dwarf-King said. Kíli nodded once, before Thorin pulled him into his one-armed embrace with a small cry. “Oh, Kíli, I was so worried. How do you feel?”

“Weird.” Kíli said. He wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to feel, he would have assumed that amputating a limb would hurt badly, but he wasn’t in noteworthy agony. “It doesn’t hurt as such, but it’s a peculiar feeling. I’m not sure how to balance anymore. How will I shoot?”

“Shooting on one leg is not so different to shooting from two,” Legolas replied. “When you find your new centre, you will learn to adjust your stance while shooting.” The question reminded him of sunlit afternoons with Alphel challenging him to run the archery courses with one foot tied to his thigh. It had involved undignified hopping from target to target, but the actual aiming and drawing was easier than they had expected.

“May I have a look at your leg, Prince Kíli?” Nestor asked softly, stepping up beside the King who was supporting his youngest nephew’s unsteady weight. “Sit down,” the healer ordered, and his authority was such that all three royal Durins followed the order. Fíli gratefully sank down onto the small stool in the corner of the tent, while Thorin supported Kíli until he had hopped his way to sit on the edge of Rhonith’s cot. Nestor gracefully began the task of unwinding bandages while Óin watched interestedly from beside him. Dori quietly excused himself to check on Ori. Nori went with him, giving in with bad grace when Dori began to fuss over him walking on his swollen knee. The Thief drew the line at being carried by his older sibling, but he consented to taking the cot Kíli had vacated and settled in for a nap under the watchful eyes of Dori.

The afternoon passed slowly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Dáin’s soldiers had separated the corpses of those Dwarrow who had hailed from Erebor originally and – like Thorin – expressed a wish to be returned to the bosom of its green stone. The rest, about 60 out of the 97 Dwarven dead, would be taken back to the Iron Hills. The Mourning train would depart the next morning, accompanied by the smaller part of the army. Many of the soldiers had elected to stay in Erebor for the winter, to work on the restoration crews. Balin had designated a very fair wage for their labour, and with the foodstuffs supplied by Dáin, Balin felt confident that they could house and feed the eight score Dwarrow who remained. Young Flóki had prepared the Uhzagh-nat dutifully, and the Ceremony was held at sundown. Like the day before the battle, every Dwarf capable turned his face West, towards the setting sun. The ceremony had not been explained to the Men and Elves, but they fell silent anyway, as the powerful voices rose. Flóki’s came first, the Singer stood on a hastily constructed dais, holding a finely made and decorated staff aloft. As the sun kissed the horizon, his voice rose in song.

“ **Mukhuh Mahal ai-mahhuda astni!** ” those who had heard Thorin sing in Mirkwood and the Company in Laketown were not surprised by the melodious voice of the singing Dwarf, but those who had not were floored. Flóki was in his element, no traces of his usual nervous disposition evident in his proud bearing. “ **Uhzagh neta! Gayadu zakfmâ nakhshurmâ. Nâziri ‘alazann Abadmâ amhud madarfân. Ag zakuruzikôn Mahal shumru ni Itdendûm. Mukhuh nâlazun du Itdendûm zadkhul. Akrâzu Mahal! **[204]**** ”

The reply from his audience, as the skinny Singer lit several braziers with incense, was louder than any of the non-Dwarrow would have believed possible.

“ **Adad mahada astni, nana’mâ ra nadadmâ! **[205]**** ” after that, no distinguishable words were spoken, though Flóki continued to sing soulfully, while Dwarrow filed past the burning braziers, tossing scraps of wood, paper, or cloth onto the flames with a murmured prayer.

 

 

* * *

 

 

At Thranduil’s tent, Thorin had taken up post in the doorway with Dwalin, who had come looking for his Royal charges when he returned to the healing tent to find them gone. The King and his estranged One had joined the rest of their kin in the ritualistic response. The warrior had carefully kept clear space between them, where before they would have stood either hand in hand or at least shoulder to shoulder. Thorin’s heart yearned to bridge the gap, but he knew it had to be Dwalin’s choice to trust him again. Their close embrace yesterday while Kíli was being examined had been more about keeping Fíli calm, than their own mutual comfort, he thought, doing his best not to flinch at the thought.

“What is the purpose?” Legolas asked behind them. Thorin’s shoulders tensed slightly, but he replied a heartbeat later, still facing the ceremony. There was no harm in telling the elf, so Thorin replied honestly.

“The fires will carry our prayers to Aulë’s Halls where the words of farewell will be kept for those who have passed into the halls. When they wake in the Maker’s bosom, they will hear our voices and know that they are not alone. The incense helps the spirits find the Way, like following a trail.”

“We should go, Thorin. You are well enough to walk among them for a few minutes.” Dwalin said, quietly serious. Thorin knew he was right, even if his injuries would be screaming by the time he made it back to his own tent.

“Aye, but see if Fíli will join us.” With a nod, Dwalin turned, making his way to Fíli’s seat. Thranduil had reclaimed his seat at the table after carefully lifting the young dwarf’s legs onto the cot, where Kíli had seemingly fallen asleep once more. He was used to sleeping with the sprawling Fíli, and the cot was wide enough for both of them. With a small sound of comfort, Kíli pushed himself snugly against Geira’s side.

“Can you only speak to those who have died?” the elf asked quietly, looking back at the still figure in the bed. She did not react to Kíli’s jostling, remaining peacefully asleep. Legolas felt an irrational surge of jealousy at the sight. He was the one who should be curled up beside her and playing with her mithril hair. With a firm grip, he wrangled his thoughts back to the ceremony he was witnessing. “Died in this battle, I mean.”

Thorin nodded. “Aye. I see no reason it should not work. Which Dwarf would you like to speak to?” he mused.

“Lothig. I wish to say goodbye, and ask her to find Rhonith’s Naneth to let her know we are taking care of her daughter,” Legolas replied sadly, “Even if we have not kept her very safe so far.”

“I suppose if your plea was acceptable to the Maker, he would see it reached the right ears,” Dwalin rumbled, his arm secure around Fíli’s waist as the younger dwarf balanced his crutch.

“Hmmm.” Thorin turned, considering the melancholy elf with shrewd blue gaze, “I’m sure my mother would oblige if she heard your request. Write her name and burn it while speaking your words, princeling, and watch the smoke carry them west.” Legolas looked rather sheepish at that. Thorin raised an eyebrow, slightly confused.

“I cannot.” The elf admitted, suddenly feeling foolish. “My people… we do not write like Noldor. I never learned to write.”

“Ah, ionneg, _avo drasto_. I will write her name for you.” Thranduil spoke suddenly behind them, making the two dwarrow flinch slightly. Neither had heard him move from the table.

“ _You do not… disapprove?_ ” Legolas asked, staring at Thranduil incredulously. The Elvenking shook his head and ran a gentle fingertip over his ear.

“ _Disapprove? If it will make you feel peace to send Lothig a message in this fashion, I will not stop you, ionneg… I miss her too.”_ Thranduil smiled, soft and gentle, “ _And I’m sure Narví would appreciate meeting Lothig also._ ” With that, the Elvenking returned to his tent, and they heard the slight sounds of rummaging. When Thranduil returned, he silently handed his son a scrap of cloth Legolas recognised from Thranduil’s own tunic, the fabric embroidered in the colours of Oropher’s House, and torn by the spear that had stabbed him in the thigh. On it, Thranduil had written sure flowing tengwar as his mother had taught him, using a stick of charcoal from his brazier, and Legolas traced the letters with a gentleness that approached reverence.

“That’ll do, lad, that’ll do,” Dwalin rumbled, making his way towards the braziers with Fíli beside him. The bald warrior had a scrap of paper in his hand, but did not look back to see if Thorin and Legolas were following. Thorin sighed. Balin had given him pen and paper earlier, and he too had a small scrap with a name on it that he had secreted away inside his tunic.

 

* * *

 

 

_Grandfather, I have reclaimed our Kingdom at last. I hope you have found peace, and that the madness does not haunt you in Itdendûm. I wish I had known you as you were in the stories I have now heard of your youth, and I wish I had been told of grandmother’s fate. Bring my love to my parents and my brother, and tell my aunt and grandmother that I am looking forward to meeting them one day, many years from now. Know that I have found my One, and that you were right in making Dwalin my companion so many years ago. Wish me luck in earning back his trust and mending the heart I have broken; I fear I shall sorely need it._

* * *

 

_Lothig, my friend. I hope I will not incur Aulë’s wrath for trying to do this, but I wish to say goodbye to you as I did not get the chance to do in life. I will miss you, little flower, though I have hope that you will be happy with your husband and your son beside you. I also wish to ask you to find Narví, a Dwarf from Moria. She is Rhonith’s mother. Tell her of her daughter’s life as you know it, and bring her my oath that I will care for her stubborn daughter as best I can. Thank you… this message comes from Legolas Go-Thranduil, Prince of Mirkwood._

Legolas was not sure how to word his message. He spoke it in Sindarin, which Lothig had been taught as a child, and tried not to see the odd glances the Dwarrow around him were sending his way. Beside him, King Thorin tightened his grip on his arm, and Legolas felt grateful that the Dwarf-King, who had not been particularly fond of him throughout their acquaintance, he thought, was beside him. With Thorin’s approval so heavily implied, none of the other Dwarrow dared stop him from taking part in the ritual, which Legolas appreciated, though he could not help but feel that the King should have used Dwalin’s arm for support, and that his own should have been taken by a much lighter hand. Dwalin was a few steps ahead of them, however, and Legolas was shrewd enough to have seen the distance between the two lovers that had appeared since the battle. He was also shrewd enough to keep his mouth shut on the subject, simply moving slowly forwards and making it look as though the King did not need him to avoid stumbling. Thorin’s shoulder was on its way to being healed, but Nestor had focused there, not on the recently dislocated hip that was hindering the King’s movement alongside his cracked ribs.

 

* * *

 

 

_Father, we have come home. Balin and I found our old home, though we have not found mother’s bones. I miss your guidance, for I do not know how to speak to my One after all that has happened. I cannot look at him without fearing that the Dwarf I will see is not him. I wish…_

Dwalin’s words faltered, and he continued onwards, not looking back to see if Thorin was with him, like he had been for so many of these ceremonies. He could still feel the jagged edges of the part of him that had been so utterly demolished only a little more than a day before, and he did not know how to put the pieces of his heart back together.

 

* * *

 

_Grandmother, Kíli and I are alright. I will probably be called Fíli One-eye from now on and Kíli has lost a foot, but we are well. I promise. We have finally met our elven aunt, though she is currently unconscious. I wish we had known her sooner; that your sister, amadel, had felt free to visit us in Ered Luin. She has so many stories to tell! Things will be different in Erebor, I swear._

Fíli’s crutch annoyed him, but it was a darn sight easier to move around with it than having to jump on one leg. Kíli had fallen back into what the elf had called healing sleep, and Fíli felt an almost physical need to watch his brother’s eyes open, watch that it was still Kíli inside them, even without his lower leg.

 

* * *

 

_Father, our home has been restored to us. I will bring Gimli and Vár to Erebor and show them the splendour of our forebears. Give my love to Amad, and tell her that Gimli is growing up to be fine warrior._

 

* * *

 

_Skaro. I have returned home. I have not found your bones, but I have avenged your death, amrâlimê. Azralifi tâhazu bulum **[206]**._

* * *

 

_Amad, Erebor is ours once more. I hope you have found Adad again in Itdendûm, and that you will not worry for your children. Ori is a scribe of great skill and he will only become better with Age. Lord Balin has taken him as his apprentice, and confided in me that he would have done so even if Adad had not already paid for it, which is a testament to Ori’s potential. Nori has claimed Adad’s old post and though I fear for him when he is among the less than savoury characters of that world, he seems to have found his true calling as well. I am as happy as I can be, and I hope I have done you proud by raising the dwarrow they have become. I love you._

* * *

 

_Nátfari. I don’t remember you by that name, Radulf, you old fiend. I wish I had known that I was your son, even if most of Ered Luin called me so… I wanted it to be real, to be claimed by your name, and I was angry to learn your true identity at last… Nevertheless, I have claimed the naragzunshfall **[207]** and your legacy and I will keep our people safe, though prepare to get punched in the face when we meet in Itdendûm. You better be making Amad happy, or I’ll also sic Dori on you. Your son, Nori, the ‘Knot-Maker’ of Erebor._

 

 

 

###### notes:

[201] All the woeful laments

[202] Eternal remembrance

[203] Anvil-heir.

[204] The greatest battle ended! The joy of our victory contains our sorrow. Tonight we ask our Father to bless those who have been killed. They will soon join Mahal’s Guard in the Halls of Waiting. May their Way be straight. Glory of Mahal!

[205] Father bless you, our brothers and sisters!

[206] I miss your soft smile.

[207] Black feather


	33. Protectors and Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 25th Nov - night  
> The Final Battle is won - or is it? Something precious is lost in the struggle and an old friend arrives too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a lot of Quenya, the older Even language that originated in Valinor and was spoken by the Noldor. Rhonith's great grandfather, Fëanor, actually invented the tengwar system for writing Quenya.

In the treasury, Gandalf’s fight with Smaug’s shade was only a little less difficult than fighting the shade of Sauron in Dol Guldur had been. Through the long hours of night, he fought, trying to sever the tethers of the dragon's malevolent spirit. Gandalf did not know whether he was protected by his own nature and innate magic or some higher power was looking out for him, but instead of Smaug’s voice making itself an indistinguishable part of his own thoughts, the dragon’s words remained identifiable as an outside influence. When the song he could only vaguely hear began to invoke the protection of the very mountain itself, the calm blue magic of generations of Cantors proved an unexpected boon, as it stopped Smaug’s prowling shade when he tried to leave. The dragon would snarl and attempt to attack, but Gandalf repelled him time and again as he kept cutting strands. As his hold diminished, Smaug’s imprint fought harder to regain control. He had been so close to claiming the dwarf, he knew, and he would have had dominion over his kingdom once more if not for the insignificant bit of treasure he had not been able to stop himself from picking up and which had allowed the dwarf to return to full control of his soul once more. Smaug’s shade had baffled at that, not understanding the power connected to the tiny piece of worked silver. Gandalf chuckled as he watched the scene play out in his mind's eye. The wizard kept plucking strands of magic, snapping their connection to the gold. The lines of fiery malevolence that had spread throughout Erebor were all but gone, and Gandalf recognised at last the voice of Bifur, rising and falling in a beautiful sound and harmonising with a second voice. He did not recognise it but knew that it was a second Dwarf as well as a voice he could only describe as that of the Lonely Mountain itself. His staff glowed, the white light combating the dark orange glow of Smaug’s powers.

When he smothered the final screaming flames of malign power, Gandalf fell to his knees with a resounding crash of tumbling gold – more exhausted than he had been in centuries from the effort.

 

* * *

 

 

When Cúnir and Amathanar’s group of scouts returned from hunting Orc stragglers, they brought with them a stranger. The stranger, garbed in a crimson cloak and well-maintained armour, rode a pale horse. His cloak was fastened with a pin shaped like a holly leaf and its hood cast his face in shadows. The sons of Bronwe had come across him battling a small band of five Orcs, though he had dispatched the fiends before they had even managed to reach him. He had given them no name, only claiming that he bore a message for their King from his Lady – the cloak and the horse made them think he came from Lothlórien – and so they had decided to bring him back to their Ada, so Bronwe could decide if the stranger – who seemed subtly menacing; dangerous in a way very few Elves were – would be allowed to appear before the King.

As they approached the camp, night had already fallen, and most of the mortals were asleep. The large pyre of Orcs was still burning, lighting the darkness and visible for miles around. The fearful screams that rent the air above the Elven camp made them spur on their mounts, and the mysterious stranger in their midst was forgotten in their haste to find out what had happened.

 

Legolas woke to the sound of screaming. At first, he could not pinpoint its origin, but when he whirled, he realised that the pained sound was coming from Rhonith, sitting straight up on her cot and screaming her head off, staring at nothing.

“Rhonith!” Thranduil shouted, trying to be heard over the sound, “What hurts, sellig, what’s wrong?!”

The elleth did not reply, continuing screaming as though she was being tortured. Bronwe came through the opening of the tent, sword drawn, but could do little. When Thranduil tried to reach for her hand, Rhonith flinched away, vaulting over the cot and flipping it up to act as a shield while she screamed again.

“Rhonith!” Legolas heard himself calling, panicked, and feeling utterly helpless. She pressed herself against the side of the tent, but none of them dared move behind the cot as her screams slowly subsided into sobbing, interspersed with words he could not understand, though they were not the harsh syllables of Khuzdul.

“ _Massë nye?_ _Man le?_ ” the last words Legolas did understand… ‘who are you?’ he could not collect his wits enough to reply, however, staring at the whimpering elleth who was as far away from either of them as the tent allowed. Thranduil seemed to be suffering from the same affliction, but just as the Elvenking opened his mouth to speak, they were interrupted by the tent opening once more.

 

* * *

 

 

When the sons of Bronwe burst into their King’s tent, swords drawn, the stranger followed them closely.

“ _Áva sorya_!” he cried. None of the Woodland Elves thought to stop him, as the stranger leapt clear above the turned over cot, kneeling beside Rhonith, who had curled up as small as possible and was still sobbing. “ _Aiwë, tulien le varya. Quildë, Aiwë, anyë lasta!_[208]”

“ _Masse Atya, merin Atya! Malaryen!_ ” she shouted, her eyes still closed. Legolas thought he recognised one of the last words, but why was she screaming for her father who had been dead for more than four thousand years? With something that sounded like a fervent curse, the crimson-cloaked stranger picked her up, cradling her shaking form against his armoured chest. “ _Aiwë, á lasta. Á lasta ninna._ _Ëan hí._ _Nál as nil_.[209]” He rocked her quietly, whispering musical words in her ear. Rhonith finally stopped crying out, though she continued to sob into his chest. Bronwe sheathed his sword, waving off his sons to their rest. Cúnir and Amathanar both shot long glances back at the splendidly armoured figure kneeling with the distraught peredhel cradled in his arms.

“ _Nurtalëon. Ceninyel, oiala nát nildenya_.[210]” Rhonith finally whispered, the words ringing with familiarity as though she had said the same thing a thousand times before. “ _Masse Atarinya?”_

“ _Quanlessë limbë yéni yá.”_ There was no doubt in Legolas’ mind that the stranger was grieved to say it, but not as much as Rhonith, who began crying once more. “ _Tulien, Aiwë_ ,” he murmured into her mithril hair. “ _Ava sorya, culdamirë. Accarnenyës_.[211]” 

“ _Masse námme? Sinomë ú-tirininya. **[212]**_ ” the peredhel sniffled, hiding her face against the stranger’s shoulder. The elf’s hand kept stroking her back.

“ _Aicassë Eressëa, Anfangaranyë_.”

“ _Anfangaranyë imi Oroni Hisië. **[213]**_ ” Rhonith replied, turning her head up to stare at him as though he were speaking gibberish.

“ _Hehtanentës lempë yén yá. **[214]**_ ”

“ _Lempë yén_ …” Rhonith whispered, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks once more. “ _Ëanenye i tirin lempë yén…”_

“ _Fó! Indemmalya vanwa… canasta oiala. Umistanyë **[215]**_.” Instead of calming her down, the elf’s low words only seemed to make her cry harder, and her grief seemed mirrored on his face as he turned her face back into his shoulder, stroking her mithril locks soothingly.

“Who are you!” Thranduil finally seemed to have regained use of his voice, glaring at the newcomer on the floor. In the strange elf’s arms, Rhonith shied away from the yelling, and Legolas saw his Ada flinch at the sight. He still felt in shock himself, having been jolted from his pleasant reverie to this odd night-time scene. If not for the fact that he would never have imagined such a scene, Legolas might not have been entirely sure he was not still dreaming.

“Don’t fear, Rhonith, we won’t hurt you,” he said quietly, soothingly, but she did not seem to understand him. The elf on the floor lifted his head, and the Woodland Elves were startled by the dark eyes staring up at them. This Elf was _old._ Not as old – perhaps – as Thranduil, but very few Elves of his years had the fortitude to withstand the grief of Arda Marred for as long as he had. Most of them had gone into the West.

“ _Ava sorya_ ,” he said. “Do not be afraid. _Nál as nildi_ – you are with friends.” Rhonith was still crying, though her loud sobbing had quieted.

“ _Ava sorya_ ,” Legolas repeated. Behind him, Thranduil was still glaring at the dark-haired stranger who slowly pulled back his hood.

“I want to know who you are, what you’re doing here, and what happened to my daughter!” Thranduil roared. His eyes were far wilder than Legolas had ever seen them, and the Prince realised that his Ada was _afraid_. The thought made him feel his own stab of fear as he turned back to the stranger who was holding Rhonith so intimately.

“I am _Nurtalëon_. In your language, Son of Doriath, I am called Esgalwathon, the veiled shadow, last of the _Vanyaro Voronwa **[216]**_.” He claimed. Both the King and Bronwe stiffened, though Legolas did not understand why.

“You’re her…” Thranduil began, staring with a degree of wonder at their guest. Rhonith interrupted him before he finished the thought, however.

“ _Nurtalëoninya_.” Rhonith’s still-trembling fingers traced the pin that kept his cloak closed. “ _Vanyaronya ar nostanya pella **[217]**_.” As she calmed, it became clear that her voice had changed, sounding millennia younger. “ _Malaneryen, Nurtalëon, Sauro malaneryen._ ” She whispered. “ _Helma mië i urulocë_.[218]” Unconsciously she traced the place on her hip where a scarlet dragon scale had once been set.

“ _Istanye_ ,” Esgalwathon replied calmly. “ _Ta vanwa_.”

His explanation was interrupted by the abrupt arrival of two Dwarrow.

“We heard screaming!” Nori exclaimed.

“I know it was Geira, I just know it,” Dori added beside him, wringing his hands.

“ **Irakamad**!” the elleth on the floor said, at last looking up at the people collected in Thranduil’s tent. Then she seemed slightly confused, staring at Dori who was gaping at the moniker. “ **Ini Irakamad** **murudai tabi Amad…”** she frowned. “ **Asti iraknanayê? Zantê duzi. **[219]**** ”

“ _Savanyë sá_ _se indyë Laurefindessë, onórë andaontarielya **[220]**._ ” The stranger answered for Dori who was still staring at the peredhel who had called her aunt not a minute before. Rhonith just nodded as though that sentence made perfect sense.

“What’s going on?” Nori asked.

“Lord Esgalwathon was just about to tell us, Masters Dwarf,” Thranduil said, keeping a firm rein on his temper lest he frighten his daughter again.

“Why does she speak like that?” Captain Bronwe was heartily confused, but he had always had a better hold on his temper than Thranduil, so his voice was relatively calm. The Elvenking was pacing furiously.

“She has not yet learned Sindarin. Her Westron is weak at best; her parents spoke either Khuzdul or Quenya at home and I don’t think she ever met a Man before she was taken by the Deceiver. She learned the dark tongue of Mordor in her capture, but I doubt she would want to use it.” Esgalwathon said. “Look at her. She is not as she was when you last saw her awake.”

“ _Atya quetë lambelë sindarinwa ná uvanëa, mal Amad quetë lambelë Aulëonna ná valda lá Quenya_[221].”

“The White Lady foresaw this,” Esgalwathon sighed. “I was too late to warn her or you, however.”

“Warn her?” Legolas said, “How could you warn her that something like this was coming? If she does not remember us, she would not have remembered your warning.” Nori nodded. The Princeling was not wrong.

“I still want an explanation!” Thranduil kept his voice low, but the command was unmistakable and his anger obviously simmering just below the surface of his calm mask. “What has happened to my daughter?!”

“It’s actually quite simple,” the seated ellon said sadly. “This is Sauron’s final revenge against Lord Celebrimbor. She remembers nothing of her life past the insertion of the Dragon’s scale. The Dark Lord tied its magic to her body, her mind, and her life. With the death of Smaug, the last blood of dragons disappeared from the world, though his magic remained. I’m guessing Mithrandir drew back all the magic that had a touch of dragon around him, which is what finally dissolved the scale and activated the final element of the curse….

 

_…Celebrimbor could only stare with hatred at the one he had once called friend, had trusted as they discovered new wonders of magic and smith-work. Now, however, there was nothing but hate left for the Deceiver who had worn the name Annatar like a mask covering the rictus grin of death. Beside him stood Nurtalëon, whose grief was almost as strong as his own._

_“You are a fool, Celebrimbor,” the Deceiver hissed. Celebrimbor could only agree; he certainly had been a fool to ever trust him. “I took your daughter, to make you see the light; such a pity. She is delightful, really.” Celebrimbor could only watch from his own chained and gagged position as Nurtalëon roared with anger, trying to fight his way free. He wished he would succeed, even if he knew there was no hope for his own escape. “What should I do with her now that I have you?” the face that had once been Anatar’s laughed cruelly. “Perhaps I should make her an Orc, like Melkor once did… she could become one of my finest generals!” he laughed. Celebrimbor could only weep on the inside, rail and scream curses at the monster who wore such a pretty face. “No, I have already avenged myself for your stubbornness, but I’ll tell you something she does not know,” as he spoke, Annatar’s beauty melted away, revealing the dark heart beneath. Celebrimbor shuddered. He did not care what happened to him after this; giving himself up for her freedom was worth it, even though he knew he would be tortured. “You see, I gave her to one of my pets; a little toy, if you will,” Annatar smiled, but there was no warmth in the expression. “She will be well-guarded in a Dragon’s hoard, don’t you think?” Celebrimbor’s heart broke. This was not what had been offered. He tried to scream, but no sound escaped the gag. Annatar laughed, seeing the impotent rage in his eyes. “Don’t worry, Celebrimbor. One day, I will kill the little abomination. When the last Dragon magic disappears from the world, my revenge will be complete, and your daughter will be returned to you.” Celebrimbor caught a glimpse of Nurtalëon, freeing one arm and coming away with the sword of the Orc he had just killed, but then he felt a blunt pain in his skull and darkness descended…_

 

… at first we believed it meant she would die,” Esgalwathon finished quietly. “When Lady Galadriel looked in her Mirror last, however, to see if she might glimpse what would come to pass, she saw my Aiwë alive, but with no memory of herself. I remember your last visit to Eregion, King Thranduil, but Aiwë… she only remembers Nínimeth, and as the Queen has gone beyond the sea… none of you would have been able to convince her she was safe; that this was not a product of Sauron’s cruel magicks. I left Lothlórien immediately, but I was waylaid a few times by Orcs, which slowed me down.”

“ _Man quetiel? Man te?_ ” came Rhonith’s mumbled question when Esgalwathon fell silent.

“ _Nát nildilya. So venno onónelya **[222]**_ ,” he replied, pointing at the Elvenking who was still reeling from the story they’d just heard.

“ _So Maicano? Massë ná Nieninquë? Man te?_ ”

“No one has called me Maicano since Celebrimbor died… not even her.” Thranduil said.

“She would not know your other names.” Egalwathon said gently. “Nínimeth learned the Noldorin tongue from her Naneth, she called you Maicano, the wielder of sword-blades.”

“She had forgotten, when we rescued her from the Dragon. Forgotten our names, our faces…” He pointed at the Captain, saying gently, “Bronwe, _hesto_.” When Legolas felt his hand on his shoulder next, the Prince almost startled. He did not know what to think. It seemed too unreal, but he could not deny that there was no recognition in her eyes when she looked at them, none of the love that usually shone there. “Legolas, _Maicano-ion_.”

“ _Laeg-o-lassi?_ ” Rhonith tried slowly. “‘ _Laeg ná wenyë!’ Nieninquë equë ninna. Tengwelë Nana.”_ She smiled widely. Legolas wanted to cry. “ _Ma so nairë_ , _Laicolasson_[223].” She tilted her head, biting her lip indecisively, looking as though she wanted to reach for him, but did not quite dare leave the apparent safety of Esgalwathon’s arms, her other hand tightly fisted in the crimson fabric of his cloak. Instead, she turned to the mithril-haired Dwarf and his brother. “ **Iraknana! Kulhu imnzi?** ”

“ **Dori, nâthu Arnóra. Hu Nori, nadadê**.” Master Dori replied, shooting an uneasy glance at the surrounding Elves, who pretended not to hear the Khuzdul words. Nori waved.

“ **Imnê Geira, nâthu Narví, Uzbadnatha Khazad-dûmu. Shamukh, ra galikh ai-ma, shaktân **[224]****.” The two Dwarrow recognised the bow she gave them, her hand fisted in front of her heart as the same greeting they had seen so many moons earlier, when she introduced herself the first time.

“ **Shamukh, Zarsthuhrunana,** ” Dori said, trying to conceal the sadness in his voice but falling short of the mark. Legolas winced slightly. Rhonith had told him the story of her first meeting with Dori, and how she had felt instantly accepted by this distant cousin who had almost immediately claimed her a sister. He felt an echo of Dori’s pain, even though it was vastly overshadowed by the gaping ocean of grief his own loss inspired. His earlier musings that her Dwarven family made her a different version of herself now seemed like the whining of a spoilt child in comparison to this heartbreak. Hearing the younger voice of her leaving her adult mouth was disconcerting to say the least, but he did not doubt Esgalwathon’s explanation; the evidence was overwhelming. He, himself, had noticed the missing scale, and now he cursed himself for not calling Mithrandir to examine her. If Esgalwathon was right, of course, the scale would have disappeared when the wizard began cleansing the blight of Smaug’s magic from the Treasury, but the fact that Mithrandir would have been able to do very little did not stop him castigating himself for failing to act.

“Will she…recover?” Dori asked, startling Legolas out of his inner musings. Rhonith yawned lightly.

“We do not know. Perhaps Mithrandir can help, but I am not learned in wizardry, my Lady, I cannot say. The Deceiver knew many things that those the Valar sent to guide us would never dare to learn. For now, she is Aiwë again, the Princess of Eregion and I am her shield, as I have been since before she was born.” Esgalwathon looked down at the peredhel who was still clinging to his side even as she studied every person in the tent intensely. “ _Hautuva, Aiwë_?” when she nodded, he lifted her gently, flipping the cot back to its original position and set her down on it. It was strange for the onlookers to see their fiercely independent friend so… _not_.

“Aiwë?” Legolas asked when Dori did not reply, frowning at the seated elf for no reason the Prince could discern, but beside her, Master Nori looked equally unhappy.

“Little bird, a species common to the forests of Eregion. It is a… nickname, if you will. As a child, she was forever climbing trees and jumping from the highest branches, and I would catch her, make her fly on my shoulders. I called her Aiwë, which made my Lady Fire-Heart laugh, but my Lord Celebrimbor liked it. My father was his Vanyaro, and I grew up in his household.”

“I had forgotten your name for Narví,” Thranduil chuckled. “She certainly was that.” The Elvenking might laugh, but Legolas could see that the situation pained him far more than he let on. As he watched their Rhonith – even if she wasn’t – cling to this Elf, who claimed to be her protector – where had he been when they were fighting Orcs? Why had he not been protecting her back when she was travelling to Imladris and met the Company by accident? – Legolas felt a well of anger in his heart. With it came envy and sorrow; what if she never regained herself, the person she had grown to be, what if that person was gone forever? It was clear that she did not trust them, even if she seemed to believe that Thranduil really was her sister’s husband.

 

Thranduil himself was feeling far more than simple anger. In his heart, rage ruled, with despair as a close contender for the throne. The crushing sorrow that his daughter was gone was mixed heavily with the guilt he felt for wishing that he could turn this brighter – though whatever experiences she had had in that tower had certainly marred her, she seemed so very _young_ and _carefree_ – version of his beloved daughter back into her grimmer adult self. He could not help but love her, even if he felt a stab of pain every time her eyes passed over his without recognition. He thought back to the first time he had taught her Sindarin; an uphill battle for her tongue, much as Legolas’ name. Her mouth, which had been used to the sounds of Quenya, the rules of its grammar, suddenly had to learn a whole new language. Today, no one but a few of the Noldorin who were left in Lothlórien spoke it, and even they spoke a form of exilic Sindarin as their everyday tongue, he knew. All the bloodshed associated with Quenya made the Sindar and Silvan look down upon those who spoke it, relegating its use to a small number of Elves as well as the Kings and Queens of Gondor, who used it as a ceremonial language.

 

* * *

 

 

“We should all get some rest,” ever-practical Nori said. Dori nodded. Together, they bowed towards their – former? – sister, and exchanged nods with the other Elves before ducking out of the Elvenking’s tent.

“How did he know?” Dori said quietly. “That Esgal-something, how did he know that I am a dam?” Nori could only shrug.

“Perhaps he learned to tell from her mother?” was his suggestion. Mentally, he added the new elf to his list of people to keep tabs on. Nori might not speak much Elvish, but if a person introduced himself as veiled by shadows or the like, he was probably skilled at sneaking around, at the very least.

In silence, the two siblings made their way back to their King’s tent, slipping inside without waking any of the occupants and bedding down on the cots by their brother’s.

 

* * *

 

 

Inside the tent, Legolas returned to his own cot, though he knew that he would find no rest in the few hours that were left of the night. Rhonith seemed to fall into true sleep almost instantly, though she refused to let go of Esgalwathon, who kept stroking her hair gently.

“Where is Mithrandir?” he asked quietly.

“Still in the Mountain, I would guess,” Thranduil replied. “If he finished his task when she woke, he has been working for many hours. Even wizards need rest.”

“In the morning, then, we will ask him to make her remember.” Legolas said.

“I fear it will not be a simple undertaking, Prince Legolas,” Esgalwathon cautioned. “The White Lady could not see the path ahead of her, but in my heart fear lurks. Even if her memories are simply locked away, rather than obliterated, the power necessary to unlock it may be more than one wizard possesses.” His sombre words seemed to hang in the silence that followed.

“Perhaps Rhonith will remember on her own.” Thranduil was clearly trying to offer him comfort, but Legolas did not feel comforted.

“She is not Rhonith anymore. Nínimeth gave that name to the elleth you raised, not to her.” He gestured at the sleeping elleth, her face serene in her rest and showing little sign of the emotional turmoil she had just faced. “That is Almarië. Perhaps she is still Geira, but not Rhonith.”

No one seemed to have an answer to that, and the rest of the night passed in silence.

 

 

 

###### notes:

[208] Little bird, I have come to protect you. Hush, Little bird, listen to me!

[209] Little bird, listen, listen. You are with a friend.

[210] Nurtalëon. I see you, forever you are my friend. Where is my father?

[211] He died many long-years ago. I’m here, little bird. Don’t worry, ruby, I avenged him.

[212] Where are we? This place is not my tower.

[213] Kingdom of Longbeard is in the Mountains of Mist.

[214] They left/abandoned it five yén ago.

[215] No! Your mind-pictures(memories) are gone… perhaps forever. I don’t know.

[216] Enduring Protectors

[217] My protector since my birth

[218] It hurt me. Sauron hurt me. A dragon scale.

[219] Aunt! But aunt died before mum… cousin? You have my hair. (Khuzdul does not have a verb for ‘to have’ instead it uses the noun with the allative pronoun to construct the concept)

[220] I think she is a descendant of Goldenhair, your grandmother’s sister. (lit. sister of your long-mother.)

[221] Daddy says the Sindarin language is without beauty, but Mum says the language of Aule’s Children is more beautiful than Quenya.

[222] They are your friends. He is your sister’s husband,

[223] ‘green(silvan word) means green(quenya)!’ Ninimeth said to me. Language of the wood-land. You are sad, Green-leaves(the quenya word for green foliage is Laicalassë, which turns into a masculine name with the ending -on)

[224] My name is Geira, daughter of Narví, princess of Khazad-dûm. Hail and well met, kinsmen.


	34. Departures and Entries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mass exodus of soldiers sow confusion as a child is lost.

When dawn’s chilly light woke the two camps – still distinctive despite the lively traffic back and forth between them – the Company’s first task was to make themselves presentable. Bofur had had to give up on finding their errant Hobbit, and it was a slightly subdued Company who got ready to return triumphant through the gates of Erebor. Ori remained asleep, breathing peacefully and looking so serene that no one had the heart to wake him, even if Dori would have let them. Dori had been told – by a very patient Nestor – that Ori was in a healing sleep, and that his body would wake when it was ready.

 

* * *

 

The pyre had been lit the night before, with no greater ceremony; simply an unpleasant task to get over and done with to most minds. The Master’s body had also been consigned to the flames, though very few mourned that prospect. He had not been tossed into the mound of stinking Orc-flesh – Bard was not that disrespectful, and much as he might have disliked the Master personally, he had still been their leader for almost two decades – instead his body had been set beside the pile. As the day had passed, however, the reasons for Faindirn’s dire warning became clear; the corpse bloated rapidly, giving off noxious gasses from every orifice, and almost smelled worse than the Orcs themselves. It had been with a poorly disguised sigh of relief that Bard had ordered the pyre lit and the Master rolled into the roaring flames. No one wanted to get anywhere near the body, so the unlucky Men chosen for the task used a shovel and a long spear respectively to push it into the fire.

The cleansing fire stretched fingers high up into the night sky and in the morning, the pile of dead Orcs was still burning.

 

* * *

 

 

Dwalin had caught a few hours of sleep, though he was up with the sun, setting his mind to all the tasks that still needed doing rather than brooding over Thorin’s behaviour. They needed a serious talk, but it would have to wait until they were alone. For now, he would simply be there, but not too close. Balin gave him one of those _looks_ when he noticed that Dwalin was hanging back between Nori and Bifur, rather than taking his rightful place behind Thorin, but the white-haired Dwarf understood and simply slipped into the open spot himself.

 

* * *

 

 

Standing outside their home once more, the Company felt the same sense of hope-filled awe that they had first experienced one summer morning atop the Carrock, seeing the Mountain in the far distance for the first time. Behind them stood Lord Dáin with the representatives of the most important nobles of the Iron Hills that had come with the army. Apart from a few old greybeards who had wanted one last look at the place of their birth, even if they weren’t much use in a fight, the Dwarrow who had come to the defence of Erebor were all professional soldiers, so the representatives were mostly young Dwarrow; grandsons or nephews of significant names. Of course, Bifur, Flóki, and Gandalf had already been in the Mountain for hours, though the Cantor and the Singer had emerged in order to follow the procession back inside. The wizard had claimed fatigue, and as they drew closer, Thorin had to admit that Gandalf looked more tired than he had ever seen before.  He smiled a fond welcome, however, leaning heavily on his staff.

“The King Under the Mountain returns!” Dáin cried, and the Company took up the call with him. The words travelled through the Dwarven camp, until it was one massive chant. Thorin smiled. Grasping the hands of his Heirs, he walked across the interim bridge and through the Front Gates.

 

As Thorin walked into Erebor, for the first time as a Dwarf of sound mind, he was saddened by the sight of it. The empty halls, though he could hear the echo of Bifur’s returning Song, seemed dismally dark and cold. Beside him, Fíli raised a torch high, while Kíli was still learning how to balance without the use of his foot. Behind him, Dwalin was notably absent, instead his place was taken by Balin. All of the Company – with one notable exception, but no one had been able to find Bilbo – walked with their King. Dáin, as the King’s blood-cousin, had a place of honour as well, and for once kept his face as solemn as the occasion demanded.

They were home.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo had, at the lack of word from the Mountain – Gandalf or Thorin, he didn’t much care by now – attached himself to Bard. At first, he had wanted to stay with Curulhénes and Erfaron, who had been quite kind and found him a bedroll to bunk down in next to their own, but the red-haired elleth had told him they’d be leaving with the dead this morning, following their gwathel’s body home to its final resting place. It had left the Hobbit a bit out of sorts; until she had pointed out that both the Elvenking and Bard were staying, so he would not be alone amongst hostile Dwarrow. The Bargeman did, after all, hold the Arkenstone, which Bilbo felt he ought to keep an eye on, particularly since he had been the one to hand over Thorin’s heirloom. That thought still made him cringe, now that he knew what his actions had meant, but he had not – and could not, even now – see another way out.

When the quietude of the morning was broken by the roar of sound that was the beginning of a Dwarven celebration, the Hobbit and the Man both stuck their heads out of the tent Bard had been given, trying to see what the commotion was about. They did not get much wiser, however, as they were hailed by Galion, rather than a Dwarf.

“Ahh, Lord Bard!” Thranduil’s Seneschal said, walking into the tent behind Bard and Bilbo. “Do you know where I might find the furrier of Laketown, a wheat-haired man called Ceadda?” Bard looked confused, but nodded at young Beorn, who had been delivering the reports from those Elves not at vigil but out hunting stray Orcs. The young Man was also staring towards the Dwarf-side of the camp, and had not heard the question.

“Beorn, do you know where your father is?” The young man jumped slightly, but nodded at his King. Galion bowed once.

“Excellent! I shall go with the youngling then, Lord Bard. _Le vilui_.” He turned to leave, but Bard interrupted him swiftly.

“What was that noise?”

“The Dwarven chanting? It was to mark the official return to Erebor of its King, I believe.” Galion looked at the scruffy-looking leader of Men with a slight frown, “Actually, Lord Bard, shouldn’t you have been there? I’m sure one of your men were told to fetch you…”

“But… you are all leaving this morning… I wanted to go home with my children…” Bilbo would have sworn he saw a flash of sympathy cross Galion’s face, but the Elf’s voice remained calm and even.

“Your children have been officially invited to Erebor. If you approve, they will join the scribe of Thranduil Aran, Rusgon, as he journeys here for the treaty talks. Our dead – along with the Dwarrow – are indeed leaving this morning, though the King and the Prince are staying behind for the treaty negotiations. You’ll be housed in the Mountain until the negotiations are over. I’m sure this was decided shortly after the battle. Did no one inform you?” Galion seemed as put out as Elves ever permitted themselves to be seen, Bilbo noted, which usually meant they were far more upset than they let on and the Hobbit felt a certain amount of pity for whoever had been meant to deliver the message to King Bard. “Either way, you are expected to join these talks, Lord Bard. I’m sure a messenger from King Thorin will arrive soon enough, as the Dwarrow are to begin to move the wounded into the Mountain.” Galion finally seemed to notice Bilbo, at that point, “Say, isn’t that one of the Company? They were looking all over for him!” Bard could only nod, a little dumbfounded. He had been busy getting on with the tasks at hand, and had not – if he was honest – given much thought to what was happening in other parts of the camp, beyond making certain that Thranduil and Legolas had both survived the battle. Galion turned to leave once more, following the towheaded young Man.

“Wait!” Bard exclaimed, “What has happened? We heard screaming in the night.” Bilbo gaped, not having heard that himself, sleeping soundly the night before. Galion seemed suddenly serious, where before he had had a joyful air.

“I’m afraid a work of magic almost five millennia in the making has come to pass. The screaming you heard was the Lady Rhonith waking up… though she is no longer Lady Rhonith as we knew her.”

“What do you mean?!” Bilbo exclaimed, suddenly terrified by the grief the mortals could see in the elf’s eyes.

“Lady Rhonith’s memory is gone. She is now as she was when she was taken hostage by the Deceiver, she remembers nothing past the insertion of the scale that was once embedded into her skin.” Bilbo paled slightly. Bard simply looked a little lost, neither knowing the story of the scale nor understanding just how many years of memory the peredhel had forgotten.

“But why did she scream?” Bard wanted to know. Galion’s grim expression made him wish he had not asked.

“Lady Rhonith – or Princess Geira, as the Dwarrow call her – woke up alone, in the company of Elves she had never before seen, and feeling the pain of the scale’s original insertion as it dissolved. She was afraid…” Galion swallowed heavily, he had always been fond of the Noldorin peredhel. “One of her personal guards arrived late in the night, bearing a warning from Lady Galadriel, but he was too late. Lord Esgalwathon of the _Vanyaro Voronwa_ is the only one in the camp – Elf, Man, or Dwarrow – the Lady Rho- _Geira_ remembers. He was apparently assigned to her protection while she still rested beneath her mother’s heart more than five thousand years ago.” As his explanation trailed off, the other occupants of the tent could only stare at him with horrified faces. To have forgotten everything… it was almost unimaginable.

 

* * *

 

 

After the official Return to Erebor, most of those who had just marched inside marched right back out again. Dáin’s people were getting ready to leave, and so were most of the Elves. The coming snowstorm – a fact both races agreed on, which meant the odds of seeing a proper snowstorm within a few days was very good indeed – meant that Thranduil wanted to see as many Elves safely back among their trees before it hit. Dáin had agreed. As the wind was currently coming from northwest and his people would be travelling due East, it made sense to get as far towards their homes as they could before the storm arrived. It meant that the Victory Feast planned for the next evening would be much less grand than they had at first anticipated, but there would be other Feasts – a grand one was already being planned for the arrival of the returning soldiers in the Iron Hills, and Thranduil would be surprised if his own people did not celebrate the defeat of so many foes; if only to distract themselves from their losses. Captain Bronwe would remain, which Thranduil was immensely grateful for; having the support of his oldest friend was more than welcome as he tried to deal with the loss of his daughter. Maeassel had taken one look at their faces when she arrived with their breakfasts and immediately decided to stay behind as well, giving the task of preparing the larders and pantries in his Halls for winter to Iorineth, her youngest daughter and most capable assistant. Two of their sons would also be staying, though Dúmon was anxious to get home to his pregnant wife Seregiel, who was little more than three turns of the moon away from the birth of their second child.

 

* * *

 

 

The sombre moment after Galion’s announcement was broken by a rather pompous throat clearing sounding outside Bard’s tent, and the man on guard stuck his head through the flap. Galion bowed silently, taking his leave with young Beorn. Bard waved at the guard to speak.

“There’s a Dwarf, milord, he wants to see you. It’s one of them as was with that King, milord, the silver Dwarf…” He obviously had as much trouble as Bilbo had had at the start with remembering which name went with which Dwarf, and the Hobbit felt a slight sense of accomplishment that he at least had always had a _guess_ as to the identity of the Dwarf he was talking about.

“Oh, just get out of the way,” Dori huffed, brushing the Man aside – he tried to be gentle, honestly, but the Man might not have agreed that he succeeded. “Joyous morning to you, King Bard.”

“Master Dori,” Bard couldn’t help but smile. Dori’s slightly pompous manner and fastidious nature was always a little entertaining for those who did not know the Dwarf well. “How are you this morn?” With another bow, Galion left the tent with young Beorn, and Dori finally noticed Bilbo’s rather bedraggled form. None of the Men had had spare clothes that could fit him and the Hobbit had not liked to complain, so he was still wearing his stained and ripped clothing from their journey and the following battle.

“Mahal’s Beard, Bilbo, what are you wearing?!” Dori was horrified. Bilbo almost laughed, it was just so Dori. The Dwarf paused, but then added, as though it was an afterthought, “Master Bilbo, there you are!” as if he had only just noticed him. Bilbo hid another chuckle. Dori would never change. “We had wondered where you’d gotten to,” Dori continued, catching up Bilbo in a bone cracking hug. “You were supposed to have been at the Mountain you know, walking in with the Company, but no one could find you. A mite worried some of Dáin’s lot had gotten hold of you, for sure, when we couldn’t find you. Between you and me, running off was not your wisest move, what if you’d been found by someone who didn’t’ know the whole story?!” Dori continued, turning Bilbo this way and that as he fussed. Bilbo rather though he knew what it would have been like growing up as Ori in that moment. “You know, Thorin sent Glóin to track you down and he was most annoyed when he couldn’t find you. Of course, Nori would have been better at tracking our hobbit, I told him, but Nori could barely walk,” Dori swallowed, and Bilbo was horrified to see that tears had formed in Dori’s kind eyes. He patted the Dwarf’s shoulder apologetically, and forbore demanding to be put down. “…and Ori is still not awake, even if the poncy healer elf says that he is only sleeping. And Geira doesn’t remember anything, and Kíli’s lost his leg, and Fíli’s poor eye, and Thorin’s lost his arm,” Dori had started to babble, and Bilbo could see the tears just about to spill over. “And you were gone and no one could find you and we were so worried that you were lying in a ditch somewhere, and poor Bofur spent hours looking through the corpses and Bombur was crying into the soup.” Bilbo did the only thing he could to try to stop the flow of words and hugged the burly mithril-haired Dwarf. Dori burst into tears and Bilbo once more cursed his lack of a handkerchief. Bard wisely retreated to the corner of the tent, surreptitiously polishing his bow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Waking up to the sight of yellow tent walls rather than black stone and an Orc bringing her food – the contents of which were better not thought about if she wanted to keep it down – made Geira convinced that her strange dream from the night before had been no dream. The presence of Nurtalëon, sitting watchful beside her enforced that belief.

“ _Manen rimba? Nurtalëon, manen rimba yéni avánier u-sívenya? **[225]**_ ” she whispered, bringing his dark eyes up to her face rather than staring at the elf across from him. Laicolasson – she remembered the name – the son of her sister. She wondered where Nieninquë was, certain that her sister would not have left her to wake alone in such a strange place if she had been able to be beside her. It had been years since she had seen her sister, but Geira knew that Nieninquë loved her. Even before Annatar the Two-Faced _SNAGA;_ in her head, she growled the dark word, her anger never far from the surface when she thought of his betrayal, had abducted her, she had known that the future Queen of the Woodland Elves considered her a little sister, just like Glíwen had been her own Atya’s sister by oath.

“ _Acca rimba an nyérë, Aranel Norindel. Nostalya né atta minëtuxa lempehúme loar yá. **[226]**_ ” She heard the words, but it was like she was under water, unable to comprehend his meaning. So much time…gone.

“ _Atya ná qualin?_[227]”

“ _So qualin. Antanyë nyérë quetë i qualmë Celebrimboron cenna, Aiwë. Accarnelmës, Aranel. Vandanya tanna. **[228]**_ ” She did not wish to hear it, though she had known, after the first time the Deceiver had visited her tower that she would never see her father alive again. Her grief was paralysing in its intensity.

She had noticed, last night, that all of Maicano’s anger and shouting was directed at Nurtalëon, who was apparently a stranger to him, while he only looked at her with love and a crushing sense of despair and grief shining in his eyes. She remembered the pictures Nieninquë had shown her of her husband, and the pictures were nothing like the Elf who was apparently King. The word Aran was the same in both Elven tongues, after all. She idly wondered what had happened to Oropher, but it was Nieninquë’s fate that spun in her thoughts.

“ _Nieninquë ná qualin?_ ” she whispered, afraid of the answer. In his chair by the table, Laicolasson stiffened. No, his name was Laegolas. She tried it out silently at first, but repeated it aloud when Nurtalëon did not immediately respond. “Laegolas, _masse ammelya?_ ”

 

 

* * *

 

 

With a few final sniffles, Dori regained his composure. He set Bilbo down gently, with a pat to his shoulder. Bilbo masterfully hid his wince. “Oh, goodness, Master Baggins, look at you!” Mortified, Dori returned to his previous topic. “We’re going to find you some new clothes at once, Master Baggins. Can’t have our Burglar look like…like... well, I don’t know what you look like, but even Nori’s friends wouldn’t be seen dead wearing such filthy rags.” Dori huffed importantly. In the corner, Bard cleared his throat.

“If I might ask, Master Dori, before you abduct Master Baggins, what did you come here for? And what will your King do to Master Baggins now that he has been found?” Bilbo silently agreed with the last question. He had not forgotten Rhonith’s warning and looked at Dori warily.

“Apologise, if he knows what’s good for him,” Dori cracked his knuckles. “Otherwise quite a few of us will be having _words_ with his Majesty.” Bard felt quite happy he was not in Thorin’s shoes at that moment; he would have been scared of the expression on the otherwise mild-mannered Dwarf.

“But he did apologise… I mean, he thought he was dying, or I thought, but he said he wanted to part from me in friendship, take back his words and deeds at the Gate.” Bilbo interjected, before Bard could deliver whatever scathing reply he had thought up.

“Ptah!” Dori spat. “Aye, Dwalin told us of that twaddle. No, Master Baggins, you are **Ubahu Khazâd**[229] and Thorin wronged you greatly. That is a stain on his honour. Just wait till Princess Dís hears about _that!_ A deathbed apology might have been all well and good if Thorin had actually _died_ but it will not do now that it seems clear that he will survive. There will be a proper ceremony and you should spend some time considering which boon to ask. Personally, I’d probably ask for a full pardon or a proper adoption,” Dori continued, easily ignoring the way Bilbo and Bard’s jaws were both dropping as his lecture continued. “Your crime with the Arkenstone – while abhorrent, really, Bilbo, what were you thinking? – is still no excuse to attempt murder of one to whom you owe your life. There should have been a proper trial. Trust me, if Princess Frís was here, Thorin would be in deep trouble.” Somehow, Dori managed to continue in this vein for five minutes, alternately scolding Bilbo as well as the absent Thorin, even managing a few jabs towards the recalcitrant wizard for not telling them where the Hobbit had been sent (“Bofur started to worry that you were trying to get back to the Shire all alone!”), all while steamrolling across any attempt at protest from the other two occupants of the tent. Eventually Dori wore himself out, but Bilbo felt a little overwhelmed by the barrage of words he had been subjected to, so it was Bard who asked the question he too had pondered when Dori first said it.

“A boon? Bilbo has to ask a boon from Thorin?” the Man said, unfamiliar with the custom.

“Of course,” the Dwarf said, looking at the two others as if _they_ were the ones making no sense. “How else will he earn Master Baggins’ forgiveness? There has to be a price for any crime, or there would be no visible justice. Thorin being King only makes the transgression worse! Master Baggins will ask his boon, or set Thorin a task, and when it has been completed to the satisfaction of both parties, the matter will be forgiven and forgotten, neither holding a grudge and no one’s honour impugned. Of course, there is the matter of the Arkenstone to consider, but Master Baggins will owe the penance for that, as he was the one in the wrong. It’s all perfectly simple.” Dori seemed so convinced that neither the Hobbit nor the Man could offer him any protest, and the thought of being free of the guilt that haunted him made Bilbo like Dori’s prim and proper solution. When he opened his mouth, it was not agreement that poured from his lips, however:

“But I’m not a Dwarf.” Bilbo couldn’t get past that hurdle, even for the sake of redeeming himself in the eyes of his friends. Surely Dwarf law only pertained to actual Dwarrow?

“Sure, you are!” Dori exclaimed, aghast. Bard stared. Even Bilbo, who was used to the way Dwarrow seemed able to state such incredulous sentences while completely serious, did a double-take. “Geira told you so, you are **Ubahu** **Khazâd**. That makes you an honorary Dwarf. You have the same rights as anyone else under our laws.” Dori nodded, as if that settled the matter, and Bilbo had to pinch himself not to giggle. A powerful wave of relief swept through him.

“Did you have a message for me, Master Dori,” Bard said, “since you did not know Master Baggins was here, you must have had a different reason to seek me out.”

“Ah, yes. Óin wants a tally of those wounded who will need to be moved into Erebor, and asks that you send along a list of names, attached to the person if they’re unconscious or without kin.”

“Names?”

“Obviously. Óin is Lord Healer for Erebor now, of course, and it wouldn’t do to be running the Healing Wards without knowing the names of the patients. What would we write on their treatment sheets, I ask you, Man-Patient One, Two?” Bard looked a little sheepish at the admonishment. Bilbo tried not to chuckle. In Laketown, everyone knew everyone at least by looks, but of course the Dwarrow were used to caring for more than a few patients at a time. “Furthermore,” Dori continued kindly, breezily sweeping past the unintended embarrassment his mirth had caused, “King Thorin requires your presence by the Gate at mid-day. You – as the leader of Men – will be the first of your race to step foot in Erebor since King Girion’s days.” The Dwarf kindly didn’t point out that it was an honour, but Bard was firmly aware that it would be considered so, even among his own people.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Kíli and Fíli spent most of the morning in the Ruby Ward, being fussed over by the combined forces of Óin and Lívhild, who were both amazed at the rate they were healing. Fíli was trying to learn how to judge depths with only one functioning eye, something that made walking on the many stairs of Erebor a rather perilous undertaking. Kíli had acquired a proper set of crutches; his stump was far too tender to be fitted for a prosthetic like Dáin’s. Though the skin had scabbed over, Nestor had not had the same energy as he had expended on Thorin’s shoulder to use on Kíli’s leg. The young Dwarf felt a little jealous of his uncle, but he was grateful to the Elves for whatever extra healing he had received. Compared to the poor souls in the Ruby Ward outside the private room that also held Ori’s unconscious body, Kíli was more than lucky. The young Prince would not need to worry about infections, nor was there a risk of gangrene, one of the great killers of amputees in general. In truth, Kíli’s sole worry was the state of Ori, who had yet to stir, which made him feel uneasy. When they were told, what had happened to Geira, he added her condition to his list of worries, but it was vastly overshadowed by his fear that Ori would prove the Elven Healer wrong and never wake up.

Fíli had – after many admonitions from Óin – convinced his little brother to go on an expedition to the Royal Palace with him. He had noticed Thraín’s collection of eye-patches on their initial visit to their grandparents’ rooms and was bound to find one that suited him in it. Fíli was quietly convinced that the loss of his eye gave him a rakish sort of air, made him a little roguish like Nori, and a proper eye-patch would add a touch of style to the bandage hat still covered his eye and cheekbone, the Prince felt. At least, that was the reason he gave Kíli, though Fíli wanted to leave the Ruby Ward just as much in an attempt to take his brother’s mind off the condition of the little scribe. Fíli had complete faith that Ori would wake up sooner or later, and it wouldn’t do to let Kíli mope around his bed until it happened.

  

* * *

 

 

When Dori had delivered his message to Bard, he dragged Bilbo back to the Mountain, scowling at the guard from the Iron Hills who tried to stop them at the Front Gates which had still not been repaired.

“In the name of Thorin, King Under the Mountain, long may he reign, that Hobbit is to be arrested!” the guard cried, blocking Dori’s path with his spear. His companion edged away slightly, having recognised Dori – or Lord Dori, as he was now known. Behind Dori, Bilbo gasped, feeling an acute sense of betrayal.

“On whose orders?” Dori snapped. The guard looked a little nervous.

“The warrant for the traitor Hobbit’s arrest came from Lord Dáin; he is to be thrown into the deepest dungeon until our Lord can deal with him.” The guard said, seemingly diminishing with every word as he wilted under Dori’s hard stare. Bilbo felt frightened. It was clear that the unlucky guard was starting to share that feeling – for vastly different reasons.

“Master Baggins is an honoured member of King Thorin’s Company, the **Unkadu amzâl**[230], and has been summoned by the King himself!” Dori began, puffing up his chest. “I, Lord Dori of Erebor, order you to stand aside.” The cleverer of the two guards finally succeeded in elbowing his friend, who gasped slightly.

“Of course, Lord Dori, this must be a terrible misunderstanding,” the second guard said, smoothly covering his friend’s breathless gasping. Dori’s glare lessened. “Please do be on your way, milord, and I shall spread the word that the arrest of the Hobbit is no longer ordered.”

“My thanks, Master…”

“Andvari, son of Dolgthvari, at your service.” The guard replied, while his friend glared at him. He was still doubled over, trying to regain the air in his lungs.

“My thanks, Master Andvari. When your shift here ends, report to Lord Dwalin Shumrozbid.” With a nod, Andvari stepped aside and Dori swept past the two guards. Bilbo followed quickly, keeping his distance from the glaring guard. Andvari smiled at him, kind brown eyes twinkling and Bilbo found himself exchanging a nod with the friendly Dwarf. “You are a Noble Lord Companion, Bilbo, you can’t appear weak.” Dori said quietly, leading him through the Halls. “Keep your head high. You have every right to be here, and more right than many.”

 

* * *

 

 

He had not moved for many hours when she finally stirred again. Thranduil had not slept either, but none of the three watchers – for Esgalwathon was still there too – spoke a word. Far too many thoughts swirled in his mind, and it was almost painful to look at her, Legolas thought, looking exactly like his Rhonith, and yet knowing that she was not and never might be his Rhonith again. First, he had clung to the hope that it was all a particularly vivid dream, but his delusions were cruelly shattered when she woke up speaking in her almost incomprehensible tongue once again. A few words here and there were the same as their Sindarin equivalents, but he missed most of them as she spoke, her accent shaping the sounds so differently that he could only distinguish the similar words when he ran her sentences back through his mind. Ada had explained that Nieninquë was the Quenya word for Nínimeth, the snowdrop flowers for which he had named his Queen. The way she shaped his own name, Laicolasson, he found endearing almost despite himself.

“ _Laegolas, massë ammelya? Massë Nieninquë_?” it was still not proper Sindarin pronunciation, though she was getting closer to the Silvan dialect, he thought, in the moment before her question hit him. He did not need Esgalwathon to translate the simple question. Ammelya meant nothing to him; the closest translation of the sounds being ‘Us-pair of ears’ but he had gleaned that masse meant ‘where?’ and really, he would have asked about the whereabouts of Nínimeth too, if he had been in her position, he had to admit, which did not make the sting of it any less.

“Ada sent her beyond the Sea. You brought her to the ship yourself, 2940 years ago. I don’t remember her at all.” He replied in Westron, thinking she would be more familiar with that tongue than his own. Thinking back to their conversation only days before about the Queen’s last words, he was surprised at the loud wailing Esgalwathon’s dutiful translation caused. The next thing he knew, his arms were full of her, weeping into his shoulder. For a minute, the scent of her enveloped his senses and he wrapped his arms tightly around her, burying his face in Rhonith’s hair. Then his mind returned to him. Pushing her away firmly, returning her to her cot, Legolas did not look back as he fled from the sad elleth-who-was-not-Rhonith staring at him through Rhonith’s eyes in Rhonith’s face.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Dori pushed open the door to the King’s study, Bilbo was surprised. Inside – on a plush, fur-covered bed – sat Thorin, while Balin went through reports. The King looked up when the door opened, and Bilbo’s breath caught. He almost did not dare meet that blue gaze, but when he found the courage, Thorin simply smiled.

“Master Baggins!” he exclaimed, smiling happily, “I am relieved to see you, Master Hobbit. Where have you been hiding?” he waved away the question with his remaining hand when Bilbo couldn’t seem to find his tongue. Tears began falling down Bilbo’s cheeks. “Mahal’s Beard, Master Baggins, what’s wrong with you?” Thorin shouted, making to move towards the whimpering Hobbit. Balin moved off to the side of the room with Dori, but the two dwarrow did not leave the room. Bilbo broke down, all the fears of the past few days catching up with him all at once.

“I-I did-didn’t know!” he wailed. With an oath, Thorin pulled him down onto the furs, wrapping his remaining right arm around the shivering Burglar. At first, Bilbo stiffened, but something about Thorin’s smell reminded him of the silent comfort he had been offered after the Orc fight in the forest, wrapped in Thorin’s cloak. Bilbo sagged. “I’m sorry I took it.” He mumbled.

“My honest Burglar, eh,” he tried, but the levity did not staunch the tears. “I know you did not realise what your actions meant. You acted as a concerned friend, Master Baggins, and I appreciate your courage. I am sorry, Bilbo. I cannot apologise enough for the way I acted.” Slowly, Bilbo’s fit of crying abated. Thorin stared imploringly at Dori, using his right hand to sign haltingly in Iglishmêk over Bilbo’s shoulder. ‘ _help’_

After a while, Dori cleared his throat, “Well, I will take Master Baggins and see if I can’t find some proper clothes and a bath for him.”

“Did you explain to Master Baggins how the trials will work,” Balin asked quietly, while Thorin moved back to settle against his pillows with a groan. His ribs were almost healed, but the bruising from Azog’s mace and the wound on his hip still pained the King.

“Dori said I have to claim a boon,” Bilbo piped up, interrupting Dori.

“And so you will, Master Baggins. If you’d like, I will meet with you later to discuss the details, however,” Balin said kindly. Bilbo nodded. “For now, I think it is time Thorin goes to greet the future King Bard at the Gates, so we can get the rest of the Men inside before nightfall. Dori will take good care of you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Seeing off the caravan of the dead, Thranduil had expected to see Legolas there, but with the way his son had seemed almost frozen in place, staring at the stranger that now lived in the body of Rhonith, the Elvenking was not surprised that he did not show. He was surprised, however, when Legolas burst out of their tent, a grief-stricken expression on his face that Thranduil never hoped to see again, and took his place beside the King to farewell their people. He was even more surprised when Legolas looked as though he wanted to go with the caravan. Gripping his son’s wrist, Thranduil spoke lowly, almost a growl escaping his lips.

“You are not leaving, ionneg. If you will not stay for me, you will stay for her! She is still our beloved Rhonith, even if she does not remember! I warned you not to be fickle in your affections, Legolas, what do you call this?” he hissed. Legolas stiffened.

“Grief.” He said, in equally tense whispers. “I cannot look at her without expecting _my_ Rhonith… and she does not even speak my language! It’s like- Ada, it’s like she died, and yet she is still walking around and talking and-” wrapping his arms around the trembling shoulders, Thranduil hugged his son.

“I know, ionneg, I know,” he whispered, “but we must have hope, hope that somehow the curse can be broken, or that we can become her family once more. Even if it will never be the same, perhaps she is better off this way.”

“How can you say that!” Legolas cried out angrily, whirling to face him once more. Thranduil did not know what his son saw in his face, but Legolas’ anger died like a smothered flame.

“Because I must hope, Legolas, I must. She has been my daughter for more than 4700 years… I must have hope.” Thranduil replied hoarsely, repressing the tears that wanted to well.

“I’m sorry, Ada.” Legolas sighed, resting his head on Thranduil’s shoulder. The Elvenking gently traced the shell of his ear.

“I know, ionneg, I know.”

Together, they watched their people disappear into the distance.

 

 

###### notes:

[225] How many? How many long-years have gone by without my knowledge, Nurtalëon? (how many years have I forgotten?)

[226] Too numerous for grief, Princess Norindel. Your birth was 5102 years ago.

 – Narví was known as Fire-Heart Wife, the name Celebrimbor gave her to use among his people. (Naur-Indë-dis = Norindis) Norindel means daughter of Fire-Heart, this would be her official name. Celebrimbor called her Almarië, but the people of Eregion would have used Norindel or Celebriel, depending on which they considered better; her mother’s daughter or her father’s daughter.

[227] Daddy is dead?

[228] He is dead. It gives me grief to speak to you about the death of Celebrimbor. We avenged him, Princess. My oath upon that.

[229] Greatest friend of dwarrow.

[230] Luck wearer


	35. Running and Fretting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consoling the maimed, and trying to safeguard those you call your own - difficult in many ways.

Welcoming Bard and the Men of Laketown to Erebor was among his less taxing duties. Most of the actual work was done by Óin and the highly capable Lívhild, who had swiftly been appointed his second in command.

“King Bard,” Thorin boomed, using the power of his voice to the fullest. Those around them stopped to watch, parting before him like statues lining an avenue and staring at the Dwarf-King. Most of them had watched the procession into Erebor from a distance, of course, but it was a different matter to see your King so close you could almost touch him. Thorin was dressed far less ostentatiously than he had been ever since the Dragon died; his old travel-worn mail over a Durin-blue tunic and only a simple silver circlet on his head. The Raven Crown was usually only worn for ceremonial purposes or official welcomes of diplomatic delegations, far too heavy for daily wear. Not that the crown he wore now was light, Thorin mused, but its weight was mostly emotional and mental, rather than physical. He barely remembered the time when is Amad had made it for him, though his first Presentation Ceremony was still vivid in his memory. “Welcome to Erebor, Kingdom of Durin’s Folk.” He smiled. The grim Man, whom he had last seen holding the Arkenstone, smiled back tentatively. Thorin felt Dwalin’s steady presence behind him and sighed. Even if his Kurdel was upset with him, Dwalin was still the only Dwarf he’d ever truly trust at his back, and the familiar stand relaxed him like nothing else would.

The wounded who were unable to return to Nestor’s domain in Mirkwood had been left under the strict supervision of Óin and a gaggle of healers from the Iron Hills, captained by the unflappable Lívhild, who, although of an age with Ori, had shown herself more than capable of running a Ward in Dáin’s Realm. Those who remarked on her youth did so only once, before they felt the sharp side of her tongue and thought better of disparaging her age ever again. “We’ll be putting the Men in the Ruby Ward, King Thorin.” Lívhild bowed, her practical battle-gear replaced with a beautiful, if serviceable, work-dress in a yellow-brown colour that looked topaz in the torch light.

“Very well, Mistress Lívhild,” Thorin said, gesturing for Bard to follow him. “I leave them in your capable hands.” With that, the two Kings set off further into the Mountain. “I trust the invitation for your children to join you here was conveyed?” Thorin asked, as he led Bard towards the Ruby Ward.

“Thank you, my Lord, yes. Galion told me they’d be travelling with Elves.” Bard said. Thorin could not help but smile. The Man still did not see them as equals, it seemed.

“Call me Thorin.” Thorin said, “You will be a King in your own right soon.” Bard nodded. “I have ordered that suitable rooms be found for you and your family in the Royal Guest Wing of my palace, though if you prefer to return to Laketown for winter, I will not keep you beyond the time the negotiations are finished. My Cousin, Lord Dáin, has arranged for a supply of foodstuffs and such to be delivered from the Iron Hills, and in the spring, his stonemasons, and builders will begin the rebuilding of Dale. During winter, we will work on stabilising Erebor, but I have not forgotten my promise to see Dale flourish once more.”

“That is generous.” Bard said. “When do you want the Arkenstone back?” he added sheepishly. Behind them, Dwalin snorted.

“We will have to have some sort of Ceremony, I’ll let Dori handle that,” Thorin decided. “Though I am not going to return it to the setting above the Throne. I am going to have a new Throne made, inscribed only with the sigil of my Line, and the Arkenstone will be placed elsewhere. Legolas told us how Aunt Geira acted towards it, and I fear that we may never be able to remove its taint.”

“How is Lady Geira?” Bard asked. “Lord Galion told us she was the one who screamed last night.”

“I do not yet know, beyond Nestor’s initial assessment. When we entered the mountain, we sent Gandalf down to the camp to see if he could do anything,” Thorin said sadly, leading the way through the halls of Erebor as though he had walked them every day of his life. “I fear he will be able to do very little. He did not seem optimistic to me,” Thorin finished, thinking about his own peculiar ‘first’ meeting with this younger version of his aunt…it had been very disconcerting.

_… “ **Bakn galikh,** ” he said when he entered the tent. “ **Imnê Thorin Thraínul, Uzbad Sigin-tarâgu. Amadê kasati nanazi. **[231]**** ”_

_“ **Shamukh, ra galikh ai-mâ, shaktûn**. **Nî kasati nanayê, zud âti irakamadzu. Damâm uru ‘aban. **[232]**** ” She replied. Thorin marvelled. Her accent was far stronger than before, her word-choice archaic. He saw absolutely no recognition in her eyes, and even if she had accepted the title of his Aunt, he knew that it would never mean as much to her as it would have to the Geira who had actually known Frís. The silent dark-haired elf with the crimson cloak, however, looked like he wanted to pat Thorin on the back, though he wisely kept his hands to himself._

_“Thank you, King Thorin. I know how much your mother meant to her.” He said, in rather emotional Westron. Thorin wondered who exactly the Elf was; though Nori’s report had been as comprehensive as possible, it had also raised some questions._

_“ **Nâm. Tâti Nurtalëon, shemrarê. **[233]**** ”…_

With that, the conversation ended as they arrived at the Ruby Ward, named for the calming patterns of rubies inlaid in the green stone of the ceiling. The Dragon had not bothered tearing the halls that led here down, so the beautiful work of art remained in its place. The rubies, which held the songs of generations of Cantors, had been part of the ceiling since the first settlement of Erebor. Thorin remembered the first time he had seen them as a Dwarfling, the powerful dream he had had about choosing the Dwarf who would free the red stones from the ceiling in clusters, leaving a pattern of geometric shapes and angles behind to decorate the room. The best miners of the time had worked in this room, ensuring that what was left behind after they had taken the rubies from the rich vein was as beautiful as it could be. The smooth walls were cut and polished, but did not reflect the light glaringly, keeping the overall atmosphere slightly dim. It was bright enough for dwarrow to see, but not so bright as to hurt sensitive eyes when patients first woke. To the Men, it was quite too dark to see much at all, but that would be remedied as soon as Dáin’s cleaning crews got to work on the grimy mirrors that spread light through the Mountain.

 

* * *

 

 

“He hates me!” Geira was tired of crying, but the look on Laicolasson’s face as he fled – fleeing was the best term for what the elf had done, she felt – made her tears fall once more.

“He does not hate you, Aiwë,” Nurtalëon tried to comfort her, but she did not believe a single word of it.

“He does. He hates that I have forgotten who they are, who I was. He thinks…” with no idea how she knew it, it still rang true in her mind, “He feels like I – the me who was – died, and was taken over by some sort of usurper.”

“I don’t know how to make you feel better, Princess, but I will always be at your side.” Nurtalëon promised. He looked tired. Aged, by experiences aplenty. She could not deny the truth of what he claimed had happened to her, even if it seemed fantastical; she didn’t _feel_ as old as they claimed she was physically.

“You weren’t here.” She replied. “You weren’t here when I woke up.” She had not had the wherewithal to question his delay the night before, exhaustion and fear clouding her mind, but this morning it seemed like a glaring oversight. Nurtalëon had no reply to that, but she saw the wince he could not quite hide. He would blame himself for leaving her alone, she knew, even if she had been in no danger from the Elves around her. Not that she really blamed him, even if she had been scared to wake up in a place she did not remember going to sleep. Lifting the plain shift she was wearing, Geira looked at the unblemished skin where Annatar had fused the dragon’s scale with her pale flesh. Not a trace of the vibrant red was left. She shuddered, remembering the burning agony of the original insertion. Returning to something that had puzzled her last night, she slowly pronounced the names of the three elves she had met. “Maicano – his name is Tranduyel. Laicolasson – Laegolhass?” Nurtalëon corrected her slightly, though the Quenya pronunciation was not that different from its Sindarin cousin. “and Por-ron-wë?” Geira asked, frowning, “That name makes no sense. Why would anyone be named ‘flour arched-roof’?” she chuckled. Sindarins really were a silly people.

“His name is Sindarin for _Vórëa_ or possibly _Vórima_.” The explanation made the Captain’s name less amusing, but more suitable to the rather grim elf she had seen the night before. She nodded, repeating the row of names once more.

“ _Hesto Vórima. Aran Maicano. Haryon Laicolasson_.” She replied, using the titles Maicano had named the night before. Nurtalëon nodded. The two spent most of the morning naming different objects around the tent in both Quenya and Sindarin; Geira being content not to think about where – in her memory – she had just been, and Nurtalëon feeling deeply unmoored by events and thankful for the reprieve of language lessons.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Inside the Ruby-Ward, healers were in full swing. The air smelled of blood, and some of the wounded were whimpering in pain. Aware of Bard’s silent presence beside him, Thorin took it upon himself to teach Bard one of the duties of a King by example. With Dwalin behind him, he did not fear falling over from fatigue, though he could feel his hip protesting the long walk. He considered the lack of pain from his shoulder a bit odd, but Nestor had explained that he had healed the damaged nerves as well as the torn flesh, so Thorin did not worry overmuch. He felt thankful that Thranduil’s healer had been on hand, having seen the months of recovery necessary for amputees before. One such Dwarf was in the next bed over, where Thorin stopped to exchange a few words. A glance at the attached board gave the Dwarf’s name as Búri.

“Good health to you, Búri,” Thorin said, using the Westron phrase due to Bard’s presence, and clasping the Dwarf’s hand in his own. Búri smiled weakly. He was missing a whole leg, and doped up on milk of the poppy.

“Thank you, my King. I’ll be dancing soon enough.” He tried to chuckle, though none of them missed the despair in his eyes.

“I’m sure you will. Cousin Dáin’s engineers are brilliant, I should not be surprised if they can make you a fake leg that dances,” Thorin replied. Búri’s face fell.

“Can’t afford it, my Lord King Thorin,” he sighed.

“All those gravely wounded may seek compensation from Erebor,” Thorin said quietly, “Speak to Óin Gróinul, Lord Healer of Erebor, he oversees the wounded. We will care for our people, Búri, now that we have the means to do so.” Búri did not reply, and the three pretended not to see the tears that fell down his cheeks. Thorin patted Búri’s shoulder in farewell and in silent agreement, the two Kings and their watchful shadow – shadows, really, as Nori was keeping an eye on things from an unseen position in a nearby corner – moved to the next bed.

“That is generous, Thorin,” Bard said, when he had heard Thorin offer the same compensation to three more Dwarrow who had lost limbs in the fighting.

“These Dwarrow were willing to die to defend my home. You have not seen my Treasury, King Bard, but I have more gold in there than I could spend in a life-time. I want Erebor to be a happy place, and my gold will buy them a measure of peace. Some of them will need to seek new training, as they can no longer perform their chosen trade, and the King Under the Mountain pays his debts.” Thorin rumbled quietly, exchanging a brief Iglishmêk conversation with his Lord Cantor in passing. “Those of your Men who have lost limbs may apply to the Crown as well,” he added, “Let it not be said that I am unjust in treating my allies.”

“On behalf of my people, I thank you, King Thorin.” Bard bowed. Inside, he marvelled at the difference in the Dwarf. Even when they first met, Thorin had been tense and on edge, temper never far buried. Now, Thorin seemed calm, if slightly sad, and his temper was nowhere to be seen. The change was slightly unsettling.

 

* * *

 

 

The next person to enter the yellow tent in which she had found herself – Geira was reasonably sure she was allowed to go outside, but did not feel quite brave enough to try, even with Nurtalëon beside her again – looked like an old Man. She stared at him. She had only rarely seen Men before, Gondor being very far from Atya’s Realm, but he spoke to her in fluent Quenya, rather than the clunky Westron she had only learned sporadically, and which had been further twisted by the orc-slaves that roamed the dark lands around her lonely tower. The Orcs who brought her food and random articles of clothing – presumably taken from dead Elves or Men, the bloody stains told her – would only speak their master’s dark tongue, which she had learned only to know what they were threatening her with and return the verbal volleys. She was far too valuable a hostage, she knew, to kill, so taunting Orcs became one of her pastimes. It had made the Deceiver laugh the first time he heard her mouth form the nasty throat-ripping syllables, but she had not cared.

“Who are you?” she said, suspicious. He felt different. Not quite like the Men she had met.

“I am Mithrandir, a wizard.” A wizard! She growled, instantly on the defensive. A wizard! That was what the Orcs called the Deceiver!

“You’re not taking me back to the tower, curuvar!” she hissed darkly, drawing the short sword she assumed was hers from the pile of clothes and weaponry by her cot. Sending Nurtalëon a betrayed look when he did not leap to her defence, she backed away, leaving herself enough room to slice an exit in the wall of the tent if the wizard dared step any closer.

“Peace, child, I am your friend,” the wizard claimed, but she had heard _that_ before.

“Ha! Do you think I am dumb enough to fall for _that_ , wizard? You are just as arrogant as Annatar even if your face is less beautiful.” She spat, eyeing him warily. The wizard did not move any closer, however.

“Please, Princess, this is Mithrandir, one of the five Istari, wizards of good.” Nurtalëon pleaded, but she did not care for whatever lies the wizard had made him believe. He was obviously not the trusted friend she remembered.

“Go away, wizard, and never return!” she snarled. If she was not safe, even with Nurtalëon, where could she hide?

“Please, Aiwë, let him examine you. Perhaps he can undo the magic that stole your memories.”

“I knew it!” she hissed, her eyes flashing between the two. “You all want _her_ back! Even you, Nurtalëon, who swore to protect me always, want me to disappear forever!” For the first time since she had heard his voice the night before, Geira felt truly afraid. The wizard was going to hurt her, and Nurtalëon that vile betrayer was going to let him, all so they could return this _Rhonith_ who wasn’t her! No! She would not let them! With a loud cry, her sword slashed through the fabric, and she was out of the tent before either of them could react. Once outside, she was almost overwhelmed by the chaos of the milling horses and Elves and carts, but she could see the Mountain not too far away. She ran.

 

* * *

 

 

When Ori finally awoke, it was late afternoon and he gave Dori quite a shock. His first word – actually what made Dori aware that he was awake at all – had been ‘Kíli’.

“Kíli’s fine. He lost half a leg, but he’s fine.” Dori mumbled, putting aside the blue cloth she had been stitching and pressing Ori back down when it looked like the young scribe wanted to get up immediately. “You’re staying there, young one, until Óin has a look at you and tells you otherwise!” Ori meekly subsided. He knew that tone of voice all too well; it was Dori’s ‘you had better listen OR ELSE’-voice, and Ori knew obedience was the way to go. The way Dori’s voice wobbled at the end told him just how close he had been to dying, and when Dori’s calls brought both Óin and Nori running, Ori got to see something that had not happened in his memory. Nori looked scared, as if he expected Dori’s holler to be bad news, and Nori never gave away what he was feeling by showing it so clearly on his face. The pinched brows and the widening eyes when Nori caught sight of Ori’s open eyes, however, told the observant Dwarf everything. The way Nori’s one hand clamped tight on Dori’s shoulder, while the other squeezed his own only confirmed that both his siblings had been equally worried. Looking at Óin, who was humming thoughtfully as he poked and prodded his patient made Ori relax once more, sinking into his pillows. He felt reasonably well, though neither of his siblings seemed to believe that statement until Óin confirmed that he was allowed to leave the bed, but that he was confined to light duties only for the next few days. After that, the tension seemed to bleed out of Nori, while Dori sighed and patted his cheek, something she had always done when he’d had to get scratches or minor injuries tended as a Dwarfling. It was a familiar comfort and Ori relaxed into the touch.

“Well, seems we owe the littlest prince a debt of gratitude,” said Nori, “After all, he carried you all the way back to the healers while a poison was eating his leg; saved your life for sure.”

“We thought you’d died at first,” Dori said, clutching the blue fabric with trembling fingers. “Your chest… oh, Ori!” with that, Dori’s composure broke, and she collapsed face-first onto Ori’s cot, sobbing. Nori grimaced, patting Dori’s shoulder awkwardly.

“Aye, **kurtharuth**[234]…” Nori trailed off helplessly. “You shouldn’t make Dori fret so – that’s my job.” Nori smirked, but Ori could tell he was dead serious. He nodded. As flighty and reckless as Nori could be, and as different from both Dori and Ori he was, Nori loved his siblings and wanted them to be happy. Dori sniffled, drying her eyes with a corner of Ori’s blanket. The scribe tried his best smile, but though she returned the sentiment, it was a watery effort at best. “Now, why don’t you go finish that jacket for Master Baggins, Dori, and get him out of his bath, while I fill Ori in on what’s happened to the rest of us. Wouldn’t want our wee Burglar to show up at dinner looking like a dried prune,” Nori said, briskly pulling Dori to her feet and ushering her out the door with a final hug. Ori gave him a grateful smile. He loved Dori, he did, but sometimes it was easier to talk to Nori.

 

* * *

 

 

Inside the Lonely Mountain – she liked the name, though it was slightly unimaginative – there were more people milling about; tall Elves mixed with stocky Dwarrow and she even saw a few more Men. No one hailed her, however, as she snuck down into the depths, looking for a place to hide. In her soul, the Stone Mother sang gently, trying to soothe away her upset, but Geira did not listen, her mind occupied with fear and escape. She had had no hope of either escape or rescue for so long, they were NOT taking away her freedom ever again! Finding a small nook to hide in was easy, even if the only Dwarf around was apparently the Cantor; she recognised the Song of Souls. The Song was what made her realise that she had run all the way to the Singing Stones; the spiritual Heart of any Mountain since the days of the Stone Singer.

“ ** _You are lost?_** ” when the Cantor’s voice changed from the Song of Souls to a Sung question, she almost didn’t notice that he was speaking to her. Touching the stone felt good. It was not the same as the Sacred Dwelling in Uncle Durin’s Kingdom, of course, this stone was much younger, and she did not recognise the people whose imprints she heard when she touched it. They were making her feel welcome; a soft acceptance.

“ ** _The evil wizard wanted to take me_** ,” she mumbled, looking up at the Dwarf whose gentle smile made her give him a tremulous one in return. “ ** _I don’t want to go back to the tower. Please don’t send me away…_** ” The fear and misery suddenly overtook her, tears rolling down her cheeks as she shuddered in her thin shift. Why was the Mountain so cold? Uncle Durin’s halls were never cold. She almost didn’t notice the stiffening of the Dwarf in front of her.

“ ** _You are a Singer?_** ” Bifur asked. She had never spoken to him in High-Khuzdul before and he was more than a little confused. No one had told him what had happened in the night while he had been busy inside Erebor. He sat down next to the elleth, who seemed very different to the last time they’d met, and scared out of her mind. He hummed a softly soothing tune as he leaned back against the stone wall.

Geira shook her head, “ ** _No, this is my mother’s mother’s tongue. She was a Cantor, like you. She used to Sing for me, and I learned the words, but the gift is dormant in my blood,_** ” she had never really understood why the Maker had allowed her to understand and use the words without being able to truly _use_ them, but the Cantor just nodded and let the topic fall. Instead, he sat beside her, Singing Love and Peace into the Heart of the Singing Stones.

Geira slept.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Thanks, **sukdakud**[235].” Nori’s nickname never failed to make the Thief smirk – after all, it was Dori who had first coined the term after spending over an hour trying to find him while playing hide and seek, one of the first signs of his stealthy talents Nori could remember.

“So, wanna tell me why you thought you could take on Bolg, son of Azog?” he asked, suddenly serious. Ori blushed. In the light of a new day, he was slightly mortified by his incredibly reckless charge at the large Orc. At the time, he had only been thinking ‘not him!’ but here in the Healing Ward, Ori had reverted to his usual shyness. Nori let the silence linger. Ori’s blush deepened. “Because I’m pretty sure I know what happened to you, Ori…” Nori drawled. Ori froze. “I haven’t told Dori yet, but do so before too long, aye? She got knocked out before she could see the way you looked, but she’s not daft, for all I tell her I’m the smart one.” Sometimes, Ori thought, Nori was the best brother ever. With a final smirk, Nori got up, bending to hug him once more and then leaving as quietly as a shadow.

 

* * *

 

 

In the Elven camp, her disappearance was not greeted with the same serenity that Bifur displayed. Gandalf had been prepared – he thought – for a Geira who did not know him, but he had not considered that she would actively mistrust anyone even vaguely wizard-like; something that had not crossed Nurtalëon’s mind either. The Vanyaro felt useless, as though he had failed his duty today as badly as the day he let her go off to play with Annatar unescorted.

“Where is my daughter?” Thranduil’s voice was low and deadly when he entered the tent where he had left the young version of _his_ daughter, and found only an exhausted wizard and a confused elf inside.

“She... er- she fled.” Gandalf finally managed to say. “Apparently, she is afraid of wizards,” he continued, more than a little sheepish.

“FLED?!” Thranduil’s rage, simmering since the night before, boiled over. “YOU ALLOWED SELLIG, WHO DOESN’T REMEMBER ANYTHING, TO WANDER THROUGH THE BREAKING CAMP ALONE?!” Legolas, who had followed his father in an attempt to get to know this new Rhonith, paled.

“We have to find her, Ada, now!” with a dark glance at Esgalwathon – who was clearly not a good protector, Legolas thought – the Prince whirled around and strode from the tent, yelling orders as he walked.

“If she is hurt, if she is harmed in ANY way, I will take it out on your hide!” Thranduil threatened. “Didn’t you say it was your duty to protect her?! This show of ineptitude makes me wonder if the stories I’ve heard of your Order weren’t wildly exaggerated, or are you simply a lesser son of greater fathers?” he hissed at Esgalwathon, whose dark eyes were sparking with his own anger. The Noldorin elf said nothing, however, simply pushing past Thranduil to join the search. After all, he had a pretty good idea where Aiwë would have gone: the deepest part of the Mountain she could find.

 

* * *

 

 

When Bifur finished Singing, he was not surprised to be sitting beside a cocoon of stone, oblong in form, looking rather like an egg and formed from organic-looking stone filigree more intricate than any sculpture master could create. The Voice of the Stone Mother was gently singing in the back of his mind, welcoming her lost daughter into her shelter.

 _Stone Mother Saves_  
_Stone Mother Protects_  
 _Stone Mother Heals_  
 _Stone Mother Loves_

 

* * *

 

 

A thousand fears were running through Legolas’ head as he began combing through the mostly-gone camp. The Dwarrow were finishing up their packing in the distance, and he felt a cold shiver of dread at the thought that she might try to go with them. Considering Dáin’s obvious fondness for her, the Lord of the Iron Hills would probably allow it. The few Elves who were left to answer his questions had not seen her, so he turned long strides towards the Dwarven side, catching the attention of Dáin’s advisor Járna, and explaining the situation. Járna quickly mobilised her people to check their wagons and such, but Legolas set off for Erebor almost as soon as he had asked her, feeling somehow certain that was where he would find Rhonith.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil had gone straight to Erebor, under the assumption that even if she did not choose to hide with her newfound kin, she might still take shelter in the Mountain; Sellig had never been dumb, and she was wearing only a thin shift to protect her from the cold winds of Rhîw. The guard at the gate did not bar him, standing aside with alacrity when they saw he enraged elf striding towards them. Andvari once again elbowed his companion, though it was largely unnecessary this time.

 

* * *

 

 

_…In her memory, her mother was singing, a song she had not heard since Narví had explained that she was going to the Halls of Waiting…_

_Geira had looked at her Amad in the wide bed, carved in the flowing lines Atya’s craftsmen preferred. Narví’s hair, in her memories the colour of spun gold had finally turned white, though the change had been slow, the white strands growing in number only over the last five years. Narví was not the first family she had seen die, Uncle Durin had left for the Halls of Waiting nineteen years earlier, but Geira could not help but feel that her world would never be the same. She climbed into her mother’s bed, clinging to her tired form. She had not even grown taller than Narví yet, she was not ready to lose her mother. When Atya joined them, the tears came with him. His comforting warmth did not leave her back as she wept against Amad’s gently moving chest. The thick-fingered hands that always surprised the elves with their quick, nimble moves carded through Geira’s mithril hair as Amad began singing. At first, she did not hear the words, but Amad kept singing hoarsely until Geira stopped weeping to listen, calmed almost despite herself. She had always loved Amad’s singing; it was so different from the songs sung in Eregion, so energetic and full of life. She was surprised by the tune this time. It was one she had never heard before, slow and simultaneously sad and accepting._

_Bravely let go of my hand,_   
_I can’t stay here, you understand._   
_Where I go now, I go alone,_   
_this path I walk, this Way of Stone._   
_For the Maker is calling._

_I must go away._  
 _Wait for you there,_  
 _patiently stay._  
 _Don’t ask me why,_  
_Only believe, this is not goodbye._ **[236]**

_…_

_The promise of the song was one she clung to through all the dangers that followed._

_This is not goodbye._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ori sank bank into his pillows. He needed to think. He also needed to get dressed, he realised, finally noticing his own state of undress. Spying the pile of clothes stacked on the small table by his bed, Ori breathed a sigh of relief. Dori was the best, hands down, he thought, always thinking of the practicalities. The scribe got up, moving carefully as he shook out the clothes left for him. He recognised Dori’s fine hand in the stitching, though he was sure it was simply altered clothes someone had left behind when they fled. That didn’t matter, he thought, shuddering at the thought of putting on the clothes he had worn in the battle. He rather hoped they had been stuffed into the Great Forges, not wanting to think about trying to clean the gore he’d been covered in. A knock on the door heralded a Healer’s assistant, carrying a washbasin and a pitcher of gently steaming water. When he was clean, Ori put on the new clothes, which fit him perfectly, though they were finer than most of his clothes from Ered Luin. He was slowly braiding up his hair, wondering where he was supposed to go now, when Óin came bustling in, muttering something about his many duties and dragging him off. The old Healer’s horn remained hanging around his neck, but Ori didn’t have the breath to ask questions anyway, so he just followed the grumbling Dwarf.

 

* * *

 

 

Inside the Entrance Hall, Thranduil nearly bowled over Nori, who was watching the stream of Men carrying their wounded into the Mountain.

“Have you seen her?” the Elvenking asked, slightly desperate.

“Seen who?” Nori studied the usually calm and collected King. The frazzled look on his otherwise unflappable face scared the wily spymaster.

“Sellig is missing. She ran away from Mithrandir because he’s a wizard!”

Nori’s reply was interrupted by the quiet presence of Bifur, who pulled his sleeve. The Cantor silently signed his message, but it did not make the Thief look any less worried in Thranduil’s opinion.

“Geira has returned to the stone?! She’s dead?!” Thranduil’s blood froze. For a single eternal heartbeat, it was as though everything was as silent as the Dwarf who was…shaking his head emphatically. “Ah… not dead.” Nori said. When he still looked confused, however, the wild-haired Dwarf sang something – Thranduil had thought the Dwarf was mute until now, but apparently not, even if he couldn’t hear any words in the musical voice – but Nori shook his head. With a frustrated huff of air, Bifur sang a loud, discordant noise, which seemed to hang in the air long after his mouth had closed again. Bifur frowned. Nori winced.

“Is there a prob-problem, Lord N-Nori?” Thranduil recognised the skinny Dwarf who had presided over the message burning ceremony the previous evening.

“Bifur is trying to make me understand what happened to Geira, but I don’t know what he means. She is in the stone, but not dead?” Nori replied, obvious confusion suffusing each word. Bifur repeated the first song – a pleasant sound, even to Elven ears – and the younger Dwarf looked like he understood completely.

“Geira is in the stone, Lord Nori,” Thranduil wondered where the stammer had gone, but it wasn’t that important compared to the next words the skinny Dwarf spoke, “She is in the Dwelling of the Singing Stones.”

“But why would she go there?” Thranduil asked, but it was drowned out by Nori’s loud question:

“What in Mahal’s named is a Singing Stone?”

“Something wrong, King Thranduil,” Thorin, who had just returned Bard to the Entrance Hall from the Healing Ward to the north, asked mildly. It was obvious that something _was_ wrong, the Elf looked like he was losing his mind. The Prince arrived, breathlessly running through the Gates, before Thranduil could reply, however.

“She is nowhere in either camp, Ada. I saw Esgalwathon head this way, however, he said it was likely she’d have gone to someplace deep. He said something about feeling the love of the Mountain, but I’m not sure what he meant. He seemed oddly serene.” Legolas babbled.

“Geira ran off somewhere, Thorin, and we’re trying to find her. Lord Bifur, here, says that she is in the stone, and the young one claims she is in the Amrab-rirakîn, as they called it in Khazad-dûm.” Thranduil did not usually let on just how much Khuzdul he had gleaned over the years, but he was too distraught to care about offending anyone with his knowledge. Durin III had called them that, more than four thousand years before, and the name had stuck in his mind. It had been so long since Thorin had heard of anyone being taken there, that for a second he did not even remember what Thranduil was talking about. There had been no Singing Stones in Ered Luin.

“What are singing stones?” Legolas asked, reaching out to touch his father’s hand, reassured that Thranduil seemed to know what was happening.

“The Singing Stones are located deep within the Mountain. They are the place we take those for whom only Mahal’s grace can provide healing.” Flóki replied. “The Singing Stones resonate with the Song of Souls.”

“I know these stones of which you speak. It is where we put her when we got her back from the dragon. I was there with her for almost four moons before she showed signs of regaining herself.” The elf’s voice was stiff and wooden, but Thorin was not fooled by Thranduil’s mask of stoicism. “She would scream,” Thranduil looked lost in memory as he spoke quietly, “so much screaming. Nínimeth was beyond rage and grief that her little sister did not know her. Durin could do little, he was so young and his memories spotty at best. Galadriel tried, but even her soothing light was not enough, in fact Nenya’s presence only made her screaming worse. But she would quiet for me, when I sang. The tune was old, a song from Valinor translated into Sindarin by my Queen from Celebrimbor’s Quenya. The Stones sang when I did not and the Song was different, but when I sang, the Stones sung too, until I thought I heard Narví’s voice in its echo.” Slowly, the Elvenking seemed to come back to himself. “Let them pull her memories from the realm of starlight if they can.”

“I want to see her.” Legolas demanded. He had no idea what the Singing Stones could do for her, but he wanted to see that she was unharmed.

“You are asking for access to one of the most sacred places in the Mountain, ionneg.” Thranduil rebuked him softly, but Legolas’ mulish expression did not waver. “I would not wish to repeat the experience for all the mithril in Moria. It is not a place for the Eldar.”

“Your father is right, Prince Legolas. Taking an outsider to the Singing Stones is not something to be done lightly.” Thorin said. It was clear that the elf did not understand what he was asking, which was the only reason the Dwarrow did not take offense. “I will consider your request, and give you my answer in the morning,” he decided. Perhaps the Princeling would have changed his mind by then. “It is almost time for the evening meal. Let us adjourn to the food hall.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Food Hall was filled with the various inhabitants of the Mountain. Those Men who remained – Bard along with a few others – were interspersed with the Elves that had decided to stay with Thranduil and those of Dáin’s Dwarrow who would aid the Company in restoring Erebor to a habitable state. Bombur had been hard at work, ruling the Mountain’s kitchen with Maeassel, and the food was scrumptious. Although it was not the official Victory Feast, an air of exalted celebration hung in the hall.

 

* * *

 

 

When the doors opened once more, the Company broke out in loud welcomes and happy exclamations. In the doorway stood Ori, looking better than healthy and smiling gently at his siblings who were the first to scoop him up in a hug. Behind him came Óin, smirking slightly at the put-upon expression on Ori’s face when he ordered the young Dwarf to take it easy on the ale. Fíli chuckled under his breath, but Kíli just stared at Ori, as if he had not expected to see him ever again. The dark Prince looked pale, swaying slightly on his remaining foot and Fíli steadied him with a loud oath.

 

* * *

 

 

Ori smiled to see them all looking so well. Being told that his friends – practically family after all the hardships they had overcome – were mostly alright aside from the three amputees was different to actually witnessing Glóin harass new victims with his bragging about his beautiful wife, or seeing Bilbo hale and hearty, busy demolishing all the hard work of Bombur and his minions with an expression of great enjoyment stretching his face with a happy smile as he listened to something Bofur was saying.

“You’re alright, Ori?” Kíli said quietly, hobbling forward to peer searchingly at the shorter Dwarf. Beside him, Fíli nodded a distracted greeting, trying to help his brother balance his crutches.

“Aye, Prince Kíli,” Ori said, a smile lighting up his eyes. “Thank you for getting me back, I hear you saved my life.” Kíli blushed, but Ori didn’t point it out, and no one else seemed to notice because Ori’s words had Dori pick up Kíli in a tight hug, which made the Prince wheeze slightly.

“Thank you, Dori,” he breathed, tapping Dori’s shoulder to be let down. The mithril-haired Dwarf carefully set him on his foot, keeping him steady until he had regained his balance on the crutch. Dori quickly dashed a tear away from his eye, before picking up Ori in a matching hug. Nori just patted Dori’s shoulder, exchanging a knowing glance with his younger brother over Dori’s shoulder. Ori wanted to say more than a few words to Kíli, thank him properly, but they were whirled into different discussions almost immediately, and Ori decided it could wait.

 

* * *

 

 

Propelling his swaying brother back to the seat beside their Uncle he had claimed – Dwalin was several Dwarrow down the table from them, which had made Fíli frown when he first noticed, but Thorin made no remark on it, so the Prince didn’t point it out – Fíli’s worry about Kíli spiked once more. The younger Prince did not look well, his hands trembling slightly when he lifted his fork, and Fíli immediately decided to get his brother to bed as soon as possible. Obviously Kíli had overexerted himself, he thought, and the extra rest would do him well.

 

* * *

 

 

“Balin, I’d like you to consider a problem for me,” Thorin said quietly, spooning stew into his mouth. Bombur had been kind enough – knowing that Thorin would prefer his cooking – to cut all the ingredients into bite sized pieces, which meant the King could eat his dinner without having to struggle with missing his left hand. “Geira has gone to the Singing Stones, which is her right as one of our kind, but the elf princeling wants to enter the dwelling to see her. Is that allowed?”

Balin frowned thoughtfully. “I doubt there is precedent. We don’t typically allow outsiders to breach our inner sanctums.”

“Yes, I know, but Thranduil seemed more than familiar with the stones, apparently _he_ visited the ones in Khazad-dûm… it’s where she was placed when they brought her back from the dragon.”

“The Elvenking is her family though, recognised even back then. His wife was her sworn sister, Durin her uncle…” Balin mused, “I think the extenuating circumstances allowed Durin to overrule any protesters, but it does set precedence for the King to give special permission to non-Dwarven relatives of Dwarrow.”

“Too bad the Princeling isn’t her relative, then,” Thorin chucked. Balin nodded. “But he is her Kurdel…” Thorin continued thoughtfully.

“Something she has not told him,” Balin said quietly. “Which either means she doesn’t want him to know, or believes it to be unrequited. Either way, not ours to tell.”

“Well, I can’t claim he’s allowed to visit the Stones because of their relation if they’re not actually related.” Thorin grumbled.

“Call it his reward for cutting off Azog’s head? Together, they most likely saved your life, as the story goes. He has earned some sort of recognition for that,” Balin replied, giving his King a knowing smile when Thorin’s smile turned decidedly mischievous as he stared at the elf slightly further down the table.

 

* * *

 

 

Legolas was not enjoying his meal. Thranduil seemed to have taken the wild-looking dwarf’s word that their Rhonith was fine, but Legolas was not convinced. How could it possibly be helpful to be put into a stone box or however they did it?

 

 

 

###### notes:

[231] Good morning. My name is Thorin, son of Thraín, King of the Longbeards. My mother was your sister. (To indicate a state of being in the PAST Khuzdul uses an irregular variation of the verb "to exist (existed)", as "to be (was)", in an IMPERFECT structure.)

[232] Hail and well met, kinsman. If she was my sister, I am your aunt. (Though Khuzdul does have a verb similar in meaning to "to be", called "tâti", the forms associated with this verb are considered classical and rarely used much around the end of the third age, which is why you won’t see it when anyone but young Rhonith speaks it.) Blood over stone. (Idiomatic expression: family is everything)

[233] Ahh. He is Nurtalëon, my supreme guard.

[234] Tiny-rune, nickname.

[235] Tiny-shadow

[236] Adapted version of ’This is not Goodbye’ by Melissa Etheridge, © 2007 Greatest Hits: the Road Less Travelled.


	36. The Void and the Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to Rhonith during Gandalf's struggle with the shade of Smaug, and onwards.

Floating in peaceful silence and bathing in starlight. Her _mind_ was floating in silence and starlight. If it had been less peaceful, it would have been scary, Rhonith thought, but the fear did not take root in her heart. She wondered why she was floating here, in what looked like her grandmother’s stories of Waiya, the Air-Sea that enveloped the world. She did not recognise the constellations, but as she did not seem to have eyes with which to see, that was a minor concern. In fact, she did not seem to have any physical presence wherever she was. She simply floated, watching the stars shine with their calm light and feeling peace infuse her spirit. Rhonith idly wondered if she had died, but discarded the thought almost immediately; if she were dead, she would awake either in the Halls of Mandos to await judgement, or in the Halls of Waiting to await the Remaking of the Arda with her mother’s kin. Neither of the two possibilities included floating in a starry void.

 _You have travelled far,_ a whispering voice reached her non-existent ears.

With lips as ephemeral as her ears, Rhonith replied, _I don’t remember how I came here. Is it a dream?_

 _Dreams… no, Child of Aulë and Varda, this is not a dream. You have been torn away and almost lost._ The whisper became slightly louder, as though the speaker was getting closer; a conundrum in a place with no apparent inhabitants. _Soon you will be gone._

 _Who lost me?_ She wondered, though she could not seem to care overmuch about the answer.

_You did._

_But I am here._ Rhonith was getting a little scared now. The voice was coming closer. Her only reply was chuckle that did not reassure her at all.

_Are you? Little Aiwë, lost in the woods. Little Geira, alone in the Stone. Norindel, veiled by shadows. Rhonith, smoke in the wind. Who are you, Almarië?_

_They are all me; my names._ Rhonith did not like the feelings the whisperer invoked. It reminded her of a voice she thought she had forgotten.

 _Are they? Who are they? Who are you? Who is the you you think you are?_ The whisperer laughed, high and cruel into the air beside her. Rhonith screamed. The laughing whisperer kept up his taunting questions. After the first time, Rhonith decided not to answer. If it did not know her true name, it could not use it against her. She recognised the deep timbre of a Dragon’s voice in the whispered words. _You have been lost and the Dark Master’s revenge is complete._

 

* * *

 

 

With no discernible way to tell time, she had no way of knowing whether the whispering taunts continued for an hour or an eternity, but when it suddenly disappeared, it was not relief that filled her, but deep fear. While it was speaking, at least she had had an idea of its whereabouts, like a bird listening for the screech of a hawk to determine where the danger was greatest. Not that it had mattered much, in her motionless existence, but feeling that there was a definite distance between herself and the taunting voice had given her a measure of reassurance. With the Dragon – through the time that had passed, she had become increasingly certain that the whisperer was indeed a Dragon – silenced, its malicious taunts obliterated from the soundscape around her, she had no way of knowing if she was truly alone. She had tried to puzzle out what it meant by the Dark master’s revenge, but the only one that came to mind was Sauron, and he had been defeated almost three thousand years before, she knew, which added a layer of confusion to the riddle. Instead, she remained floating amongst the unfamiliar stars. For some time, she amused herself by making up constellations, but the mental exercise was little more than a way to fill the time. She wondered if she should be anxious; try to find a way back to her body, but she couldn’t seem to gather enough will to make any discernible effort. Floating in the starlight was quite pleasant, after all, why did she want to leave again?

 

* * *

 

An indeterminable amount of time later, she felt a different presence. Again it seemed to begin far away, with a whisper, though this voice was distinctly female. It was not quite strange, though it was not quite familiar either, like a half-remembered dream.

 _Oh, my lost little one. Come home._ It sang, and she was tempted to try to move closer to it, but her experience with the whispering dragon left her wary.

 _She is afraid,_ a different female whispered across the empty space around her. _We took too long to find her thread. Please, little ruby, trust us. We will lead you home._

 _I know, but she must come. He will want to speak with Our child._ The first voice replied.

 _Who are you?_ Rhonith asked, feeling her words float towards the two females, who had devolved into fond bickering.

 _We are the ones He sent to find you._ They chorused back, which told her absolutely nothing, and only made her more reluctant to go along with their wishes.

 _Who is He?_ She said instead, wondering if she could trust the two females to be truthful, or whether they were simply figments of her imagination.

_He loves you. He watches over you. He speaks to you._

_That could fit many I know. What is his name?_ Rhonith asked waspishly. The female voices laughed. They were closer now, too, like the dragon before them. Rhonith tried to keep her distance, but she still had no ability to move herself – or if she _did_ move, she couldn’t sense it – and the bickering ladies became louder.

 _He is beloved,_ one lady said. _He is the father of many._ The other added with a fond smile that Rhonith felt rather than saw.

Next thing she knew, Rhonith could feel a presence on either side of her. One of them smelled like flowers, but had an undertone of smoke and metal, while the other could only be described as earthy. She had not realised that her sense of smell had been gone, but the sudden olfactory presences seemed to re-engage her senses, though she still did not possess a physical body. She could feel them coming closer to her.

 _Don’t touch me!_ Her scream made both the ladies chuckle.

 _Hush, Child, we wish you no ill._ The flowery one whispered.

_We only want to bring you home…_

 

* * *

 

 

 **It has been many years since last we spoke in your dreams, _Amrâbu alkhâd_** , the Voice that spoke in her dreams was kind. She liked it instantly. **Longer still since you were as you are now.**

 _You’re the Maker._ Geira had no doubt. _So Amad was right when she said You would speak through the stones…_ a sense of wonder filled her, washing away the mire of fear she had struggled with ever since she awoke in this place that was not her tower. _Is Nurtalëon here? I ran away from the wizard._

**Your protector is waiting for you, but he cannot join the Song of my Children, even if he was initiated into the ‘Ushmar, little one. You were wise to seek shelter with the Stone Mother.**

_I was scared. But I should not run away from Nurtalëon, Amad said so,_ Geira admitted, _will she be mad at me?_ Amad’s anger was not lightly provoked, she knew, forgetting for a moment that her Amad had been dead for almost two centuries… or more than four millennia if Nurtalëon was right; which she had to admit he probably was.

 **I think we will keep this small instance of disobedience between us, daughter** , Mahal chuckled. **The wizard would not know how to help you, however, though you owe him some thanks for freeing you from the Deceiver’s terrible curse.**

 _No one wanted me here,_ Geira said sadly. _They all wanted Rhonith-me back. I don’t want to die…_

 **The curse is gone. Do you realise what it did, little one?** The Maker asked, looking at his child; so terribly young and scared. He wished she had been in the stones when the wizard had pulled away the magic that bound her, but the warning had come too late.

 _It hurt. And I couldn’t remember. And Nurtalëon said Atya was dead,_ the last sentence made tears course down her cheeks, but Geira felt no shame in weeping before her Amad’s kind Maker. Mahal wrapped his large hand around her trembling form, soothingly humming an old Dwarven lullaby.

 **Your father perished many years ago, it is true. He passed into the Halls of Mandos, where his fëa was judged by my brethren and I.** The thought of it made him smile. Celebrimbor had been an interesting acquaintance indeed.

 _Did you like him?_ Geira felt very small compared to the granite-skinned Vala, but the fear she had felt when she ran from the one who was meant to protect her had dissipated. The Maker’s hold was infinitely secure, no harm would find her while He held her soul, she knew. Mahal laughed, loud and booming.

**Yes, little ruby, I liked your father. Narví chose well.**

_But they were One. It was your choice._ Geira frowned.

**Yes, their souls were One… but that does not guarantee that love will grow, nor does it mean that they were forced together. I gave them a hint, a nudge or two, nothing more. My wife was very amused.**

_Is he… happy now?_ Her heart broke to ask, imagining her poor Atya all alone in the Halls of Mandos; his beloved wife parted from him forever, and now she was not there to soften the ache of yearning either. The image seemed almost worse than having to walk Arda without any parents at all. She had friends here, Nurtalëon – who was apparently not trying to betray her with the old wizard -  and the son and husband of her sister as well as the Dwarrow who called her kin. Thinking about Laicolasson made her smile. He had seemed so sad when he realised she did not know him. When she left the Stones, she would find him a present, she vowed. He would look quite nice with sapphires in his hair…

**Do not cry for Celebrimbor, little ruby. He dwells with your Amad in my Halls, as my adopted Child. Your parents are happy together, though they miss you greatly.**

Geira wept in relief. Mahal simply let her cry herself out; the cleansing tears would help her find some peace.

 

Much later, once she had wiped her face clean of tears with a fold of her shift, Geira looked at her Maker. The Great Smith just smiled.

 _You did not tell me what the curse did,_ Geira suddenly remembered. Mahal chuckled, ruffling her hair with his breath.

 **You have forgotten your life as you lived it with the scale in your skin; like you once forgot the life you had before its insertion.** He rumbled. Geira shuddered, remembering the pain and confusion of her waking in Thranduil’s tent.

 _The other me forgot about me-me?_ She frowned, trying to imagine waking up with no memories at all. Another shudder passed through her slight frame.

**Yes and no. After the Deceiver planted the scale of the dragon Aparuiwë in your skin, you were taken to the dragon’s lair, where you spent the next thirty years being influenced by her magic. She knew your names, and cast powerful spells on them. The spells supressed the few memories you had retained from your life before the tower, as I understood it. It left only fragments to appear in your dreams. When you were finally rescued, you knew nothing. You had forgotten all that you were, all you had been. Some, you regained, for the Song of Remembrance is powerful, but much was lost. You are only half my Child, and the Song could not heal you entirely. The magic in the scale remained, exerting subtle influences over the years. The you that was recently wounded in battle did not remember all of the life she had lived either, but now the scale is finally gone.**

_What does it mean for me?_ Geira felt apprehensive. It did not sound like she had had a pleasant existence since being rescued, and she was quite happy to have forgotten.

**Are you also happy that you have forgotten years spent with your sister, you kin, your family? Years you have spent honing both your Crafts, years you have used to see most of the known world?**

… _No…_ she finally admitted. _But... I don’t want to give up my body to this stranger. Can’t they just tell me what happened?_

**Dear Child, you would be giving up nothing. She is you and you are her, two pieces of the same soul. What you do not know, she holds, and what she has forgotten lives on in your memory. There is no replacing, only melting together, melding you both until you are once again whole.**

 

* * *

 

 

 _You must follow us. We cannot linger overlong here._ The flower-lady spoke with some urgency, while the other one was humming something Rhonith recognised as an old song her Uncle Durin had hummed when he worked.

 _Who are you?_ She asked, still suspicious. She did not feel threatened by their presence, but the lack of answers was grating.

 _I am the Wife,_ the flower-lady said. Rhonith gasped. A terrible suspicion was born in her mind.

 _I am the Mother,_ the humming one added, confirming Rhonith’s thoughts as to her identity. Closing her eyes – which still did not exist – and praying she was not making a mistake, Rhonith nodded.

_I will go with you._

 

* * *

 

 

 _I want to be whole…_ a small voice said, sounding very far away. There was a sense of movement and remaining stationary at the same time that hurt Rhonith’s brain if she thought about it, and then she seemed to have opened her eyes. Staring at the Maker, whom she had last spoken to in a dream almost a thousand years ago, Rhonith bowed respectfully. Mahal laughed. Opening his large fist, he reached towards her slowly. On a palm the size of a rowboat sat a small mithril-haired figure that Rhonith slowly recognised.

 _Almarië._ She whispered. The small elleth waved. _She is me…before the dragon? What is going on?!_ Confusion made her take a fearful step back, even as the younger version of her reached towards her.

 **Be not afraid, Usakh. Once you were cursed to forget…** As Mahal’s explanation unveiled exactly what had happened, Rhonith had only one question.

 _Why did no one tell me? Warn me?_ She felt an acute sense of betrayal and anger. Nurtalëon should have told her, even if Atheg would have wanted to protect her, just like he had told her what really happened to her father when Atheg wanted to shield her from the grisly truth.

 **I believe they did, Usakh. At least your ‘Ushmar would have. I would guess that the curse protected itself by keeping you ignorant. If you had known, you would have gone out to kill any and all dragons you could find, daughter, and you well know it.** Nodding slowly, Rhonith took a step back towards younger her, who was waiting patiently, studying her older self avidly.

 _What happens now?_ She asked. Behind her, the Stone Mother hummed gently, a Song she did not recognise, but which filled her with calm.

 **Now, you are reunited with yourself. Take each other’s hands.** Mahal commanded. Biting her lip nervously, amused to see younger Geira do the same, Rhonith took her own hands.

 

* * *

 

 

“You are happy, my love,” Yavannah said lightly, perching on Mahal’s workbench.

“Our Child has been broken too long. Perhaps she will find more than she thought she had lost while she sleeps.” Aulë replied, bringing his hammer down on a piece of red-hot steel. “Thank you for your aid, beloved,” he turned to her, pressing a kiss to her rosy cheek. The journey through the Paths of Dreams had clearly been a draining experience; his vibrant Queen seemed tired.

“She is a stubborn one, my love, but I admit that I am quite fond of her.”

“As I recall, her mother was one of your favourites,” a twinkle appeared in the Smith’s dark eyes as he watched his Wife laugh. With a shrug, he abandoned his work, picking up Yavannah instead.

“Our favourites, I think you will recall,” she teased gently, resting her flower-garlanded head against his shoulder with a slight yawn. Humming, Mahal carried her out of his forge, and laid down to rest. With a murmured sigh, Yavannah pillowed her head on his breast, and as his fingers trailed through her loose hair, the love of his existence slept peacefully.

 

* * *

 

 

At first, nothing seemed to happen. Geira closed her eyes. Slowly, an image appeared. A red-headed elleth she instantly recognised as Nieninquë was holding a small bundle of blankets towards her.

“This is Legolas,” The Queen whispered, smiling tiredly. Geira reached out to take the elfling. “I’m sure you will be great friends, gwathel-nîn.” Geira nodded. Bending over the bundle revealed a small face, still red from birth and his wisps of hair plastered to his skull. In the corner of the room, Atheg smiled.

“ _Nai oluvalye vandë, Laicolasson_ ,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his small brow. “ _Esseninya Rhonith._ ” She did not want to relinquish the babe, a strange feeling of contentment stealing over her as she stared at his face. She knew him. Somehow, she knew his soul. The realisation was heady. This little elf, not even an hour old, was her One…

 

* * *

 

 

“Well done, Almarië.” Atya smiled, looking at the small silver bead she had painstakingly engraved with  an elaborately shaped Nibum-rune. “I think your mother will love it.”

“Nurtalëon showed me how to make a puch from a leaf!” she laughed, rolling the small silver object in her hands. “He say I did good.” Her father just smiled. Rhonith could feel tears rolling down her cheeks as she watched the scene play out. The small elfling jumped up excitedly when a dark-haired elf entered the workshop, clambering onto her small stool and throwing herself into the air – utterly certain that there would be safe arms to catch her. With a laugh, Nurtalëon put her down on the desk beside Celebrimbor’s project, a small mithril circlet. They were making gifts for Amad’s Nameday, Rhonith realised, watching her father’s hands skilfully shape the mithril. Outside, the sound of loud Dwarven voices rang through the air.

“Go distract your mother, Almarië. I think Uncle Durin has come early.” Celebrimbor smiled. As though the name had been magic, the little elleth jumped off the table with a loud cry of ‘Uncle Durin!’ and raced out the door. Nurtalëon followed watchfully, while Rhonith shadowed him. They watched a dark-haired Dwarf pick up the little girl, throwing her high in the air, while his golden-haired sister laughed. A few steps behind stood another Dwarf, smiling indulgently at the scene.

“Cousin Rafn!” Almarië shrieked, bounding towards the third Dwarf. “Did you bring me candy?” her eyes – massive in her small face – turned pleading as her cousin laughed loudly, ruffling her mithril hair.

“Of course I did, zanshith. You can have it for a kiss?” Rafn chuckled, digging in his pocket and unearthing a stick of the rock-candy they made in Khazad-dûm. With a delighted grin, Almarië pulled him down by the beard a bussed his cheek. Hopping back to her mother and showing off her prize, Almarië was once more lifted, and placed on the shoulders of her Uncle.

“Oof, you’re growing big, ghivashith,” Durin rumbled. Beside him, Narví smiled calmly.

“Atya says I’m perfect for my age,” the girl informed him seriously, which made the three Dwarrow chuckle. In the doorway, Nurtalëon couldn’t hide his smile either, but Rhonith felt tears sliding down her cheeks…

 

 

“Who are you?” The Dwarf-King – Geira recognised his crown as similar to  Uncle Durin’s – asked.

“I bear message for Lady Rhonith – Princess Geira,” the elf corrected himself halfway through his sentence, “from the Woodland Realm.”

“Ahh…You are Ephelchon, I remember.” An elder version of herself replied kindly, rising from her seat beside the King’s throne. “What is your message?”

“The King has awoken, Lady Rhonith,” the Elven warrior bowed respectfully. “He invites you to return to his Halls once more, if you wish it.”

“We will leave at once.” Geira did not miss the sigh of relief that escaped the elf, and her older self’s words sparked a flurry of activity, ordering the preparation of supplies and such. Lady Rhonith stepped down from the throne dais with a bow to the King, who dismissed her with a smile. Gliding down the steps, Lady Rhonith placed her hand on the messenger’s arm. “Tell me how the Woodland Realm has fared since my last visit.”

Ephelchon gulped. “Not well, Lady Rhonith. The elder Princes have been disowned and banished from King Thranduil’s lands for their ill treatment of their youngest brother…” He continued to report, Lady Rhonith’s frown deepening at each new story he told…

 

Next thing Geira knew, they were riding swiftly across open landscape. Far ahead, she could see trees, a dark smudge on the horizon, but coming closer as the horses’ hooves ate the miles. Lady Rhonith looked worried, and the four guards, who were apparently not as at home in the saddle as she was, had trouble keeping up. Geira did not pay attention to most of the swift journey among the trees, though she gaped slightly when she saw the massive doors that were being opened for her older self to ride trough. Handing her reins to the closest stablehand, Lady Rhonith was running through the Halls as quickly as her legs could carry her. No one stopped her; a few elves even seemed relieved to see her, though they did not hail her either. They both stopped outside and ornately carved door; Geira recognized her sister’s hand. A similar door had graced her own bed chamber in Eregion. Taking a deep breath, Lady Rhonith pushed the door open…

 

 

“Take Almarië and go, Narví!” Celebrimbor cried, not turning to watch his wife do just that, picking up the toddler and pressing her face against her chest. Beside him, Nurtalëon stood, sword in hand. Rhonith gaped. In front of her Atya’s enraged face stood a defiant Dwarf, axes raised. He did not seem to care the Nurtalëon had already finished off his comrade. “Who are you?!” The Lord of Eregion roared. Anger burned in his dark eyes.

“It’s that mark again,” Nurtalëon said, icy calm hiding a deep well of rage she could only hear because she knew him so well. In comparison, Celebrimbor burned with the fire of the sun as he held his sword against the Dwarf’s neck with a few easily executed moves; almost too swift to follow with mortal eyes. The unknown assailant’s eyes widened in shock as Rhonith watched her Vanyaro calmly collect his discarded weapons. “I believe my Lord asked you a question.” He said, idly dragging the flat of his blade along the Dwarf’s throat. “For every answer you don’t provide, I will cut off one of your braids,” he warned, when the Dwarf’s only reply was a string of foul Khuzdul curses.

“It’s Jarrin.” Narvía said, from where she had paused in the doorway. “That is the mark of Jarrin.”

“We’re only the first, little elf-whore.” The stranger spat. Narví’s mouth thinned as her eyes flashed with anger. Her hold tightened.

“Why do you attack us!” Commanded Celebrimbor. “Tell me!”

The Dwarf laughed jeeringly, staring at the way Narví was shielding her daughter from his sight. “That thing is an abomination. It should be killed.” He spat at the Elves’ feet. With the same icy calm with which he had threatened the Dwarf’s neck, Nurtalëon swished his blade once. The Dwarf’s largest beard braid fell to the floor…

 

 

As she witnessed the death of Durin VI, Geira wept. He looked so much like his 2nd incarnation, the one who had been her beloved Uncle, that it was like watching him die all over again. Her Uncle Durin had died in his bed, surrounded by kith and kin, of course, whereas this version died trying to give her elder self time to get his grandson out of Khazad-dûm alive. His death was followed shortly after by a Golden-haired Dwarf who looked almost like her own mother – except he was a male, and obviously the Crown Prince – but Lady Rhonith managed to escape with the small dwarfling…

 

 

 

… “You are Thorin, son of Thraín, son of Thrór, he who is called Oakenshield, Prince of the lost Kingdom of Erebor and King-in-exile of its people.” Elder Rhonith said quietly, but somehow Geira heard her voice continue, _you are Fris’s ‘Little Wolf’, though you have grown so very grim since I saw you last that morning in Ered Luin. Do you know that I am your aunt? Should I tell you?... you do not look like you recognise me from any description… I’ll assume you have followed Thrór’s dim view of my kind. Caution, Ilsamirë, caution…_ “I assume you do not remember meeting me before, as you were but a baby when I saw you last, swaddled in Frís’ arms,” she laughed, soft and tinkly, _best keep our relationship secret for now_. “I am Ilsamirë, though I am known by many names.”…

 


	37. Rituals and History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas makes an Oath, and witnesses something he does not understand. Ori discovers something once lost.

Bilbo was quite happy to be back inside Erebor. Although it was still – for the most part – pretty dark and somewhat depressing, there were islands of light and life, and the chatter of many Dwarrow filled the previously silent halls with the joy of life. Walking through the bustling halls – he had thought that the Company were industrious, but the addition of those Iron Hill Dwarrow who were strong enough to work showed him a true glimpse of what Erebor would be like when it was fully repopulated once more - Bilbo nodded at those who nodded greetings at him. A few of the Iron Hill Dwarrow still looked askance at him, but Andvari’s warning had obviously been heeded even if Bilbo had not yet been introduced to Lord Dáin. In the clothes Dori had given him the evening before; a blue jacket with a dark grey weskit and a pale shirt underneath, which fit like they had been made for him, and trousers that were cut at just the right length too, he felt like a proper Hobbit again.

… _He was astounded, appearing from the bath he had languished in – longer than strictly necessary, perhaps, but no one had yelled at him to hurry and it was so nice to be clean – when he had seen the mithril-haired Dwarf standing with a bundle of cloth in his arms. Bilbo had almost cried in relief that he would not have to put his old clothes back on._

 _“Durin blue, Master Baggins,” Dori said pompously, handing over the garments he had made. It was a bit rushed, but still a far cry better than anything Bilbo had left. “Lest anyone forgets what you have done for our people.”_ …

When he learned that the jacket – made from the fabric of an old tunic – had actually been created from some of Thorin’s old clothes, he had felt more accepted than ever before. Even their hug atop the Carrock – itself one of his most treasured moments from the Quest – paled in comparison to slipping the jacket over his shoulders, feeling its weight settle on his body. He had not noticed the line of runes embroidered along the bottom hem until he took off the garment for sleeping, but he did recognise the Khuzdul letters. **Buhelu Khazâd**. He puzzled at it for little while, reasonably sure that Khazâd was the plural for Dwarf, but buhelu stumped him, until he realised that it was almost the same as the word both Dori and Ilsamirë had used, **Ubahu** **Khazâd** , greatest friend of Dwarrow. The sight made him tear up again, happy that his friends had forgiven him.

 

* * *

 

 

The Elf had been adamant that he wished to see Geira, and none of Thranduil’s warnings changed his mind, which had not been a surprise to Thorin, who privately thought the elf might have a stubborn streak almost as wide as a Dwarf’s. He did not mention that to the Elvenking, however, though he knew that Balin had read the thought clearly on his face; the advisor’s poorly hidden chuckle gave him away. He had not, however, wanted to delegate the task of showing the elf to the Stones, which was why he was now venturing into the depths of his reclaimed kingdom with the Prince. Young Ori, who seemed to suffer no ill effects whatsoever from his long sleep, joined them; he had not visited his claimed sister yet, even though both Nori and Dori had gone to pay their respects in the early morning hours. Ori had been holed up in the vast Library; looking up scrolls and tomes pertaining to the Singing Stones. He had gladly relinquished the job of collecting and identifying the dead that still remained in the many tunnels and corridors of Erebor to some of the Iron Hills Dwarrow, under supervision of Kíli. The younger Prince had been put in charge of writing up a list of names for the deceased; each set of bones would be given a tag with his or her name so that they could be claimed by their next of kin if any could be found. Copies of the list would be written up properly by scribes later and sent to the other Dwarven realms, but Dáin had not brought proper scribes, and Kíli was not fit for hauling rubble.

 

* * *

 

 

Bronwe spent the first part of the day in the room assigned to Thranduil, who had gone to sleep, emotionally exhausted after the events of the day before and who had not yet awoken. Legolas had decided to spend his day elsewhere, so Bronwe was left to watch quietly as his King – and oldest friend in the world – slept.

_Nori led them to a room which, though still slightly dusty, had obviously been prepared with Elves in mind; the beds were far longer than Dwarrow would ever need. The walls had a leaf-pattern inlay in a different green hued stone than the walls themselves. Thranduil went straight for the low bed in the corner of the room while Legolas took the one opposite._

_…“Aventurine quartz,” Nori said, appearing almost silently behind Bronwe as he studied the carved stones. “Made by Princess Frís, I believe, though I don’t think any Elves actually got to stay here.”_

_“What is this one?” Bronwe said, pointing at a different stone, a blue-green colour with an iridescent shimmer. Nori chuckled._

_“They’re all aventurines, Captain Bronwe. The stone comes in many hues and with different levels of iridescence.” Nori explained…_

 

* * *

 

 

Dwalin did not know what to do. He spent as much time as he could as far away from Thorin as possible. He had not lied when he told him that he still loved him, before the Battle, but he could not help his reticence. Thorin had truly scared him. The madness had come so quickly, it seemed, and Dwalin could not stop seeing the look on the King’s face as he drew his sword that last time in the Throne Room. That Thorin had drawn his sword against Dwalin was not the thing that hurt the most, however, though if he could avoid it, he stayed away from the Throne Room. Often, avoiding Thorin meant taking detours to get around the Mountain, but Dwalin needed to sort out his own mind before he could think about tackling the mess of tangled emotions that buried him in an avalanche of anguish whenever he thought about Thorin in the sense of Thorin his lover. Thinking about Thorin as King was slightly more bearable, and allowed Dwalin to get through his duties during the day. Frustrated by his own heart, Dwalin found himself down by the Singing Stones, as always soothed by the echoes of his Amad which Bifur’s Song seemed to summon. When they had first moved to Erebor, Amrab-rirakîn[237] had been his sanctuary, a place that seemed almost the same as the one in the Iron Hills, a place he felt _home_. Amad had often found him down here when he had spent the day feeling awkward in his big, still unfamiliar, body on the training grounds, and her Song had soothed him. Sigrún had never berated him for coming to such a sacred place to escape from the world above, she had simply let him be, until he was ready to re-join life above. He had sought comfort here then, and he sought comfort now, as he sat with his back towards Geira’s egg-like stone cradle. Dwalin’s experience with the Stones as a Dwarfling meant it did not frighten him to hear voices coming through the background of the Song.

 

* * *

 

 

“This is a sacred place, Prince Legolas,” Thorin said, his voice little more than a whisper, as they reached the stairs that would take them down to one of the deepest levels of Erebor. Thorin’s remaining arm shot out, stopping the Elf dead before he could step onto the stairs that wound ever downwards. “You are the first Elf to set foot in the Dwelling of the Soul-Stones of Erebor.” Thorin quietly wondered what his ancestors would think of this breach of their cultural secrets, but in the end it did not matter. He owed the Elf something, and he was reasonably sure that Geira would not protest if she had been able. “I demand your oath that you speak of this place and what you see here to no one. The Singing Stones are part of our Deep Lore. By rights, you should not even be allowed to see them, but I am choosing to be magnanimous for the sake of my Aunt. Do you swear to keep sacred what you will see here?”

“I so swear.”

“On what?” Legolas did not understand the question. Behind the King, the little scribe piped up.

“You have to swear your Oath on something, Prince Legolas. If you break it, the Maker will claim your forfeit. Such is the Way of Mahal.”

“What would the Maker of Dwarrow accept as an Elf’s Oath?” Legolas was drawing a blank, and he could tell that Thorin had not considered the implications either. Usually a Dwarf would swear on his beard or braids, and let Mahal claim it if they turned oath-breaker, as a visible sign of their dishonour, but elves obviously did not _have_ beards that could be taken away.

“Well, Celebrimbor swore on his hands.” Ori said sagely, “When he pledged himself to Lady Narví, to be bound as her husband for all the ages that followed.” When his captive audience both whirled, Ori blushed. “I looked it up, when I was looking through the Library. I wanted to see if there was a record of their courtship. It was all very romantic, you know. Even though that’s not the story Geira told us, our legends state that Celebrimbor made the Doors with Narví for the chance to woo her. Durin accepted the finished work as her bride-price, the highest valued bride-price of any Longbeard Princess, before or since. After all, the art of crafting Doors like it was lost with Belegost, so they had to rediscover a whole new art!” the scribe was almost vibrating with excitement. “But it sets precedent. Celebrimbor swore on his hands, because without his hands he could not Craft, which was the most precious thing he had.”

“Would Aulë cut off his hands if he had broken his Oath?” Legolas couldn’t help but be intrigued. Rhonith had told him of her parents’ courtship and marriage, but she had never explained the rituals used by Dwarrow, which seemed almost barbaric to Legolas. He did not want to give Thorin any excuse to chop off his limbs.

“Ahh, no,” Ori said, a little sheepish. “We hold that all Crafts are a gift from Mahal. Therefore, if Mahal took your hands, what he would take would be the ability of those hands to create things of beauty. We wouldn’t actually cut off someone’s limbs, even if we do cut off beards and braids of oath-breakers. Those grow back…eventually.”

“So, I should swear on my hands?” Legolas asked, still not sure how Rhonith’s father’s Oath would influence his own.

“No,” Thorin rumbled beside him, looking pensively at the elf. “You are no Craftsman, such as Celebrimbor was, your skills lie elsewhere. I have seen you fight, Princeling, and I have seen you walk through the branches of your Woodland Home. What you will swear is your agility, your speed of movement. Those are what makes you…you.” He concluded. Legolas gulped. Never to be able to jump through Ada’s archery runs, never to play at jumping from tree to tree; he had to admit, Thorin was right in his assessment.

“I do so swear to keep the Secret Lore of Dwarrow, upon my speed and agility I bind this Oath.” He said, slightly shaken. The little scribe patted his elbow. The King smiled. Legolas wondered if he knew how much such a simple expression transformed his face.

“Good. Let us descend.” Thorin said, setting off down the stone steps.

 

* * *

 

 

Now that Ori was awake and his mind freed from at least one of its worries, Nori turned his attention to familiarising himself with the people Dáin had left behind. The boisterous Lord had remained with around five scores of strangers; Dwarrow who were willing to help with the rebuilding, Elves who were being surprisingly helpful when they weren’t actively working to fulfil their King’s wishes, and some Men, though most of the Men who were left were those too wounded to leave. Most of the Iron Hills Dwarrow had departed shortly after most of the Elves, trying to avoid the first snowstorm of winter burying them on the road. Nori spent part of his day getting to know the most obvious leaders of the Iron Hills contingent; those who held sway with the common Dwarf, other than Dáin. Amoda, the second daughter of Járnfridr, who controlled most of the iron mines in the Iron Hills, was among those who were going to help reopen the mines of Erebor, under supervision of Bofur. Unfortunately, Bofur was a clumsy oaf when he was drunk – Nori know that from experience – and had landed himself in Óin’s Ruby Ward after the evening meal – and copious amounts of ale – when he had tripped over something – Nori believed the culprit was most likely his own foot – and broken his leg by falling down a short flight of stairs. It meant that he would be unable to oversee the mines in person for the foreseeable future at least, however, which was why Nori was going to find the most suitable replacement among those who had experience with mining from the Iron Hills. Slinking away from the perch he had picked – halfway up a pile of rubble that looked so unstable it might fall if anyone so much as _looked_ at it – for the purpose of spying on Amoda with her cousin Gunnar, Nori smiled. Amoda, while ambitious enough to want an overseer’s position, was also clever enough to realise that the best way to get one – without using her mother’s name as a bargaining tool – was to work hard and let her skills speak for her. Dori had told him of her run-in with the Guard Andvari, and Nori also spent a while dropping hints in the right ears that the Hobbit was to be left alone. He felt bad for Bilbo, though he had also found himself begrudgingly impressed that Bilbo had managed to trick all of them; Nori had only believed the Hobbit’s melancholy to be homesickness, not a result of keeping the Arkenstone hidden.

 

* * *

 

 

Balin kept himself busy; a blatantly obvious attempt to refrain from meddling in his younger brother’s love life. He understood at least part of the problem, but on the other hand he could not help but compare Dwalin and Thorin to himself and Skaro. He would give anything – _anything_ – to have just a few more minutes with his One, and his brother and cousin were _wasting time_ staying away from each other; each nursing bruised hearts that would only heal if they did something about it _together_. Balin was tempted to clobber one or both of them around the head if it would have made them see sense. Either or both of them could so easily have perished in the past _year_ , let alone the recently fought Battle of the Five Armies. An enterprising soldier from the Iron Hills had coined the name, and though no one was quite sure which five armies counted as _the_ five, it was widely agreed to be a good name. At least, it was better – and far shorter – than the alternatives. Balin did not understand why Thorin was letting Dwalin stew; his brother would only get lost in his own heart, always a danger for Dwalin whose heart was far less armoured than his appearance suggested. Thorin _knew_ that. Balin knew his brother well enough to know that Dwalin had retreated so far that Thorin would have to make the first move, but he _also_ knew that Thorin had a marked propensity for brooding on his own mistakes rather than attempting to fix them. Watching the pair of them at dinner the night before and breakfast in the morning was enough to give any sensible Dwarf a burning headache, Balin felt. The old advisor rather thought that he ought to be rewarded for his restraint when he _didn’t_ follow Kíli’s whispered suggestion of locking the two of them in a small room until they had worked out their issues. Instead of falling into daydreams of such endeavours, however, the elder Fundinul turned his attention to the treaties that would need to be crafted to ensure that Dale was rebuilt, the land around Erebor revitalized, and everyone kept fed and paid for their time. They would also need to have a discussion about the wergild owed for the dead, but Balin felt that required more research. He had asked Ori to look up the standards paid from previous wars, and confer with Thranduil’s scribe when he arrived; considering the long lives of the Eldar, it was entirely possible that they would consider the Dwarven standard for wergilds an insult – a diplomatic disaster in the making which Balin would do his best to avoid. Head swirling with thoughts and preliminary drafts, the white-haired Dwarf made his way to the King’s study.

 

* * *

 

 

The Dwelling of the Singing Stones, as the little scribe – _Ori! …he really had to learn all their names properly at some point,_ Legolas mused – had translated for him – all the Dwarrow had refused to teach him Khuzdul words, though they were not too averse to him knowing the place-names within the Mountain – was beautiful. Even Legolas, who preferred the beauty found in green and growing things could admit as much. Ori had explained that the Stones, made from a material he called Soul-Stone, but which did not actually have a name in Westron, only grew in special areas where the care and joy of generations of Dwarrow had seeped into the rock and created a link with the beating Heart of the Mountain. When the three visitors entered, they saw simply a stone shape on a round dais in the centre of the room. In the corner of the room opposite to the entryway, Bifur stood, silent and watchful, and yet they could all hear the echoes of his Song of Souls that seemed to linger in the Stones. Dwalin was standing by the large egg-shaped stone, one hand resting lightly on it and a slight smile on his face. When stepped away with a muttered prayer in Khuzdul and a pat on the stone, Bifur began to sing once more. Legolas had to stare. The rock, a peculiar colour that seemed to be all colours and no colours at the same time, appeared to be growing at a speed he could follow with his eyes. The Song filled the space, seemingly strumming his bones, which was honestly a most uncomfortable sensation. Legolas did not feel like he belonged there, but the four Dwarrow seemed lightened somehow, as if the weight of their burdens had become less heavy.

“Aunt Geira, I have brought the Elf-Prince Legolas to see you,” Thorin intoned solemnly, as he walked towards the dais. Dwalin stepped aside easily, giving his spot to the King. “ **Mukhuh Mahal basutsi milmal**[238].” Thorin bent, pressing his forehead against the stone for a few seconds, before he turned, gesturing Legolas closer. The Elf gaped. The stone, which had seemed solid at a distance, was actually layer upon layer of filigree, entirely obscuring the body within. As he watched, a second layer began to grow; thin filaments of stone snaking their way up the base of the egg and creating another pattern on top of the first.

“What’s happening?” he whispered, terrified that Rhonith was being eaten by some sort of carnivorous stone. Bifur’s song came to a gentle end, and the stone met itself above the apex of the curve, a stone cocoon that left none of its occupant visible.

“The Stones will keep her body as they sing her home,” Dwalin said quietly. “My mother was Lady Cantor of Erebor from the time we moved here until the dragon came. She died in the attack. I can hear her Voice in them.” Dwalin’s awe was evident, but Legolas felt unsettled. The Song hung in the air, and he could still feel its effect in his bones. He did not like it.

“The Singing Stones are the last resort.” Thorin explained. “Those who are beyond the skill of Healers are brought here, where Mahal’s Voice is strongest, and given into the care of the Stones. They weigh the Soul, and if the Soul is worthy, the Dwarf is healed. The Stone casing stops whatever was ravaging the body until the Soul has been judged. No one knows how the Stones judge, though some who have been sent here and lived have told us that they spoke to the Maker himself while they slept in the Stones’ embrace.”

From the shadows came a new voice, as the elf Esgalwathon stepped into the light. “ **E,** _Vanyaro Voronwa_ _Nurtalëon_ **, Mashammarûn Geira Uzbadnâtha Khazad-dûmu, jalâzrali id-uhgur Shamrur ni Urd’ek**.” Legolas stared. Around him, the Dwarrow looked gobsmacked. Nurtalëon was speaking fluid Khuzdul, something no Elf was supposed to be able to do since the death of Celebrimbor. As he spoke, Nurtalëon removed the green tunic that covered his chest, drawing a small dagger from a sheath at his belt. “ **M’damâmê ra m’amrâbê, antihifi astî, Abad-Amad**.” With the last word, the ellon drew his blade across the tattoo that decorated his left pectoral, above the heart. Blood pooled along the blade, welling up and running down the ellon’s pale skin. Nurtalëon held the blood-soaked blade in front of him, chanting quietly under his breath as drops fell from the sharp edge to the stone floor. “ **Damâmê. Aznâgê. Amshâmê. Abnâthê. Amrâlê. **[239]**** ” On his chest, a symbol Legolas did not recognize shone wetly in the torchlight, crimson blood streaking across mithril runes. As the last drop fell to the floor – seemingly absorbed by the stone, Legolas could see no trace of it on the polished flagstones – Bifur sang a calm tune in response. The elf knelt fluidly and thrust his blade, still dotted with droplets of his blood, into the dais at the base of the monolith that held Rhonith’s body. The blade disappeared into the stone like it had been stabbed into soft butter, leaving only the finely decorated handle visible when the ellon straightened once more. Thorin cleared his throat. “Fair morning to you, Uzbad Thorin,” Nurtalëon said, bowing to the King, who seemed as stunned as Legolas.

“What was that?” Thorin asked, gesturing baffled between the elf and the dagger that was still embedded in the stone. Legolas felt more than a little unsettled by what he had just witnessed.

“As Shumrozbid, I grant you the right to bear arms in the Halls of Erebor,” Dwalin said, clasping Nurtalëon’s forearm. The elf returned the grip solidly, giving the bald warrior a slight smile.

“My gratitude, Shumrozbid,” he said, bowing. “The Stone Mother has accepted my blood and I will honour my pledge.”

“I repeat: What just happened?” Thorin said, slightly waspishly as he glared at the two warriors.

“I have been Princess Geira’s Mashammarûn since before she was born, Uzbad Thorin. The proper blood rites were done when she was only hours old, tying my life to her protection.” He touched the mark on his chest, wiping off the blood that stained the runes. “This mark was made by King Durin when he made me his niece’s Guard.” In his skin, mithril ink caught the light, revealing a Gatu-rune nestled with a Nibum-rune beneath a Shashum-rune and surrounded by the Khamu-rune that symbolised the Kingdom of Khazad-dûm.

“She does not need me as much as she did when the Brothers of Jarrin were trying to assassinate what they considered an abomination,” Nurtalëon continued, “but whichever version of her emerges from the Stones, I will not leave her without a defender. The Rite of the Protector ensures that the very stone of Erebor recognises me as having the right to be by her side – even here, where the Song of the Stone Children is strongest.”

Bifur signed something in response to Nurtalëon’s words that made Thorin nod gravely. “Aye, Bifur, I didn’t think of that.” He turned to face Legolas once more, “You are not a Dwarf, nor are you formally recognised as kin by the Stone, and your Soul does not sing with the Voice of Stone, like ours. You may not feel well if you remain for too long a time at once. When you come here, either tell someone to fetch you back up to the Main Halls after a certain amount of time has passed, or bring an escort. We do not know what effect the Stones will have on one of the Eldar.”

“He won’t last long surrounded by the Song.” Nurtalëon predicted, and Legolas would have considered it a taunt if not for the complete seriousness he could read in the other ellon’s eyes. Wiping the blood from his skin, Nurtalëon put his green tunic back on, wrapping his crimson cloak around him once more, turned inside out to reveal a peculiarly changing grey fabric with the vivid crimson as the lining. With a respectful nod at Thorin, he leaned against the wall, sinking easily into the familiar resting stance of the experienced guardsman.

“But Rhonith is one of the Eldar, too!” it seemed important to acknowledge that fact, though Legolas could already feel the Stones affect him. He felt oddly lethargic.

“She is and she is not. She is Khazdûna. In here, she is Dwarf. The Stone would not have accepted her body otherwise.” Ori said. Legolas almost did not hear him.

“…too much for you, lad, hmm?... let’s get you out of here…” the last thing the Elf felt was Dwalin’s big hands catching him as he fell into the black void of unconsciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

“I don’t think yon princeling likes the Stones, King Thranduil.” Dwalin’s grumble preceded him through a door Bronwe had not noticed in the corner. He stiffened. “Relax, Captain, this door leads to Legolas’ room. I’ll leave the key with you.” Dwalin rightly interpreted Bronwe’s grimace as that of one who has just been informed of a way to hurt his King that he had not thought of.

“Thank you, Captain Dwalin,” he replied, casting a look at the sleeping elf in the bed. “The King yet sleeps. What has happened to Legolas?”

“He fainted. We’d barely been down there ten minutes when he keeled over.” Dwalin clarified. Bronwe looked alarmed. “He’ll be fine. The Stones are not used to Elves, or he’s not used to them,” Dwalin shrugged, “I set Dori to watch him for now, but he shouldn’t be out long.”

 

* * *

 

 

“That mark…” Ori said, as he followed Thorin back up the stairs after Dwalin had disappeared with the fainted elf.

“Have you seen it before?” Thorin asked. Having a tattoo made with mithril made sense if it really was more than five millennia old. Mithril had not been abundant in Khazad-dûm, but it had been used for many official and ceremonial purposes. Durin’s personal Seal had been made from mithril, a treasure of Dwarven craftsmanship.

“Yes, and so have you,” Ori replied. “A different version was carved in the mould of Thrór that we filled with gold.”

“The King’s Mark?” Thorin asked. Ori nodded. “I always thought it was just Grandfather’s Seal.”

While not made from mithril, the heavy gold Seal – Thrór had worn a smaller version as a signet ring – had impressed young Thorin; it was larger than his palm, even when he reached physical maturity. He idly wondered where the seal had gone; it had not been among the things recovered from Erebor during the sacking, but he had not seen it during their occupation either. The large amulet had lived in a special display case in Thrór’s official study, which had been impossible for Smaug to reach, but he had not seen it when he went inside during the first few days of their stay when he could still bear to leave the Treasury for extended periods of time. Thorin shuddered at the memory of those dark days.

“Apparently they had Guard’s Marks in Khazad-dûm…” the scribe said thoughtfully, unaware of horin’s sudden shift in thought; his words brought the King sharply back to the present. “Makes me wonder if other customs have been lost to time. I’m going to see if I can find any information about the significance of the tattoo in our Library. Perhaps you need to make your own Seal as the new King?”

 

* * *

 

 

Waking up in Erebor was not an altogether unpleasant experience, Thranduil thought, as he opened his eyes to the sight of his Captain playing dice with the droopy moustache dwarf, whose foot was wrapped in bandages. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall beside the Dwarf, but his hat was missing.

“What time is it, Bronwe?” Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Thranduil go to his feet, pouring himself a goblet of cool water from the pitcher on the side table.

“Just after lunch, Hwiniedir,” Bronwe replied placidly, rolling a four and a six, which made the Dwarf groan in defeat. “Legolas went to the Stones and fainted, he’s sleeping in the next room.” Thranduil _did not_ laugh…though it took effort to maintain his stoic expression; Bronwe was not fooled in the least. Hiding his smirk by splashing some water on his face, the Elvenking composed himself.

“I did warn him. Stubborn son of mine,” Thranduil sighed. Bronwe’s raised eyebrow clearly communicated the sentence ‘He _is_ your son’, which made him shrug. Legolas came by his stubborn streak honestly. “Where might I find Thorin? We should probably get a start on these treaties we’ve been talking about.”

“His study is not too far away, I’d expect to find him there.” The Dwarf said, picking up his die and his crutches to lead the way. Thranduil nodded.

 

* * *

 

 

When Legolas woke, he was in a darkened room. The Dwarf called Dori sat with him, stitching something, a task that Legolas thought there was far too little light to perform, but the Dwarf’s stitches were tiny and neat in the blue fabric. He cleared his throat.

“Ah, you are awake!” Dori calmly handed the Elf a cup of cool water. He clucked in sympathy. “You look a little peaky, still, though not as much as when you were brought up here,” he said. “Master Dwalin said you fainted in the Stones.”

“Where am I?” Legolas felt confused. He remembered Rhonith lying in a stone egg, while he could hear singing, but that seemed like a hazy dream.

“Erebor’s Royal Guest Wing. This is the room assigned to you, the Tourmaline Room,” Dori explained kindly. “That door over there leads to your Father’s Room, the Aventurine Quartz Room.” He pointed at the walls, where the green stone of Erebor had been dotted with small flowers of various colours from pink to blue made of some other type of stone. “Those are tourmalines, which come in different colours. The reds are called rubellite, but they’re also a form of tourmaline. King Thorin thought it best that we gave you one of the green rooms,” Dori continued. “The Aventurine Quartz room does not have flowers; instead it was decorated with a pattern of leaves made from aventurines.”

“It’s very pretty.” Legolas didn’t quite know what to say, he’d prefer a real flower any day, but the gemstone-studded walls were quite pretty in their own way. The ‘flowers’ did not precisely look like any flowers he was familiar with, but he knew it was an attempt to make him feel welcome in Erebor, and he did appreciate it. When he had visited during Thrór’s reign, they had never spent the night inside the Mountain, and he now wondered if that had been Ada’s choice or Thrór’s.

“Yes, Princess Frís was very skilled,” Dori said, patting Legolas’ hand sympathetically when the past tense made a tremor of grief pass over his face. Legolas studied the flowers more intently now that he knew who had made them. Knowing that Lothig had made this room, he felt more welcome than before, perhaps she had designed this room with him in mind? “Thorin would like you to join the Victory Feast, if you feel up to it.” Dori continued, deliberately oblivious to Legolas’ preoccupation.

“Where is Ada?” he asked, getting up from the surprisingly soft furs. Legolas wondered how fur could have survived inside the Mountain for 170 years without rotting, but he appreciated the cedar scent that clung to the bedding. In a corner, he noticed his armour, put on a stand, and cleaned to gleaming.

“The Elvenking is in Thorin’s study with Bard and a few of their advisors, working on the preliminary treatises. Your Captain Bronwe is with him. Mistress Maeassel is in the kitchens, and I don’t know where the rest of your party have gone.”

“Very well, I shall join the Feasting after I have cleaned up,” Legolas decided. Dori nodded.

“You will be seated at the King’s Table.” With a slight smile, Dori left, taking the blue fabric with him.

 

 

 

###### notes:

[237] Soul-’Places of secrets’

[238] May Mahal let you become healthy quickly

[239] I, the Eternal Protector Nurtalëon, He who continues to guard Geira, Princess of Khazad-dûm, claim the right of Protection(lit. containing protection) in Erebor. By my blood and by my soul, I beg you, Stone Mother. My blood. My courage. My duty. My oath. My love.”


	38. Birth and Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Ered Luin!  
> Grief and anger is not just for Thorin, and a hard choice is made.

The first time Vár met Athalrún, the wife of Bombur, she thought her dull and fretful. The dwarrowdam was quite unlike the brash and self-assured Vár, though she had no reason to be so soft, Vár thought. A blacksmith by trade, Athalrún was well-muscled, even if her bone structure seemed slightly too fine for such a rough trade. Whenever Dís had her visit, Vár would grit her teeth and simply suffer through listening to Athalrún’s soft voice. Eventually she realized that Athalrún didn’t need to be tough, that her softer ways were not a lack of strength, but simply the way Athalrún made her life function. It only took one dinner at Bombur’s house for Vár to realise that Athalrún’s soft manner was a velvet glove covering a core of steel. Corralling her brood – Vár had no other word for it – Athalrún was a general directing her troops and the dwarflings, even the little Borkur at no more than seven years of age, heeded her gentle orders. Vár did not truly appreciate Athalrún’s soft but steely determination until this moment, however, when she was in more pain than she could remember ever feeling before. Gimli’s birth, while dangerous to her very life, had not hurt this much she was sure. Dís was there, like she had been for the birth of Athalrún’s little Bomba, but she was busy assisting the healer, while Athalrún was the one to hold her hand through the pains. The dark-haired dam’s sweet smile belied the strength of her grip.

“Do you want to hear a story? It took my mind off the pain for a while when I had my twins,” Athalrún said quietly. Vár nodded, at this point desperate for anything that might make her think of something besides the pain coursing through her body and the worry that Vakri could not quite keep off his face. Dwarven births were always dangerous, but having twins was almost unheard of; about one pair in every generation. Vakri was right to be worried, Vár knew, even if she tried to convince herself that everything would be fine; in her heart of hearts, Vár felt certain that death would visit her small family this day.

“I’ll try anything right about now,” she tried to laugh, but a gasp interrupted her as a spear of agony tore through her body.

“This is the story of Adaldrida, my great-grandmother, who was a Hobbit.” Athalrún began, with the air of one used to telling stories to an audience. “My story begins many years ago, in the calm and quiet Shire, in the year 2680 of this Third Age of the World.” The beginning sounded like she had spoken it many times before, and a look at Blidarún, who was speedily following Vakri´s commands, proved that Athalrún’s daughter had indeed heard the story before. “Now, Hobbits are not like us Dwarrow, aside from the fact that they too like to live underground. Not in great mountain halls, but in the soft earth. There they build smials, with curiously round shapes everywhere. Their doors are round, set into the sides of hills. Their walls curve, as the tunnels stretch from room to room. They are not cold places, for there is enough earth around them to make the temperature constant, and even a Dwarf could feel at home like that…” When another contraction hit, Athalrún simply smiled and continued weaving images in her audience’s mind. Vár had to admit that it did help her focus on something else. Glóin’s letter from Rivendell had described Master Baggins’ home to her, though he had called it a burrow, which had made her think of rabbits. Athalrún’s words, however, made these…smials… seem quite nice. “…Hobbits have a love of growing things, for they are close to Yavannah’s creatures, and their fields and orchards bear much food. This shows in the Hobbits themselves, who are small, plump creatures. They do not have much time for other races, and are quite content to keep themselves to themselves, and enjoy their peaceful lands. Adaldrida was a Hobbit, from the family Proudfoot. She possessed a lovely singing voice, and could often be found in the local tavern singing. Hobbits like good ale and good music, much like us, which was why Adaldrida caught the eye of Svari, a wandering smith from the Blue Mountains. Svari was a Dwarf, a blacksmith by trade, and he had found that Hobbits were willing to pay him well for making kitchen utensils and gardening tools, but that they were not much fond of any blade larger than a bread knife. He was sometimes paid in coin, though mostly the Hobbits existed in a system of bartering, goods for services. He was a good-looking Dwarf, with a rich red beard, decorated with iron and silver beads his sister had made.” Athalrún did not let on if Vár’s grip pained her, simply squeezing back in commiseration and continuing to weave the story of Svari and Adaldrida.

 

* * *

 

Vár groaned, interested in the story almost despite herself. At the foot of the bed, Blidarún smiled, nodding at her mother. The story was helping Vár stay calm, which was good for the babies. With another squeeze of her hand, Athalrún continued spinning her tale.

 

* * *

 

 

Gimli was waiting. He was quietly thankful that Mistress Athalrún had demanded Bolbur wait with Gimli, even if the brawny Dwarf did not say much, during the hours they spent in the room outside Dís’ bedroom. Gimli thought it funny that his new siblings would be born in the same room that had heard the first cries of the two Princes, but there had been no time to move back to their own old house. Not that Vár would have wanted to, he thought realistically, they had not been living in that house for more than six months, and it was bound to be dusty. Living with Dís was not bad, Gimli thought, though he was happy that his mother had not berated him for promising Kíli that they would look after Dís. At first, the Princess had put on a brave face, fooling everyone but Vár, and Gimli had been surprised the morning his Amad told him they were going to move in with their cousin. Vár’s excuse – that she was getting too heavy to trek back and forth from their house to Dís’ place – fooled absolutely no one, but the gratitude in Dís’ eyes made Gimli hold his tongue when Vár told the outright lie with as straight as face as he had ever seen her wear. Gimli knew it did not fool the Princess either, but Dís was equally adept at knowing when it was better to shut up and follow Vár’s plan – a skill Gimli had spent years honing.

“You want to hold the wean?” Bolbur asked quietly, startling Gimli out of his thoughts. Even though he was ten years older than Bolbur, Gimli had never really spoken to the Dwarf, who was already a Journeyman Blacksmith and spent most of his time in the forge or brawling with some less than savoury types Gimli’s mother would never have let him go near. In spite of his reputation, Bolbur was incredibly gentle as he held the small pebble towards Gimli when he nodded. Accepting the swaddled pebble – no longer than a loaf of bread – Gimli felt a peculiar sense of responsibility settle on his shoulders. The pebble, who had been sleeping calmly, blinked sleepy green eyes up at him, her gaze curiously unfocused. A small yawn revealed her soft pink gums before the little eyes fell closed once more and the pebble murmured a slight snore before settling back to sleep.

“She’s so…small,” Gimli breathed, having never held a pebble before.

“Your new siblings will be even smaller,” Bolbur chuckled, accepting his sister back into his secure hold. “Bomba is growing quickly, getting plump and fat, aren’t you, **Maznlefamith **[240]****?” he tickled her tummy lightly, but the pebble did not wake. A scream sounded from the bedroom, making Gimli start.

“Is she dying?” he whispered, fearfully, but Bolbur shook his head, every bit as calm as his mother always seemed.

“Bringing new life into this world is a battle, my Amad said,” he imparted this wisdom sagely, and any other day Gimli would have felt livid at being consoled by a fifty-year-old, but Bolbur’s words did calm him, “in any battle you will hear war cries. Vár’s screams are just that, a tool to overcome the pain of her battle.” Gimli wasn’t sure how much of that was simply something dams said to make their menfolk feel better about having to listen to their loved ones in pain, but he knew better than to ask.

 

* * *

 

 

Vakri tried to keep the worry off his face, as he looked up at the pained face of his almost-father’s brother’s wife, but he felt deeply uneasy about the impending birth. No matter how he tried to place his listening rod, he caught only one heartbeat, and it was faint and a lot faster than it should be. He prayed that he would not have to tell Vár that one of her pebbles was dead already, but the pit of dread in his stomach made him think this birth was unlikely to have as happy an outcome as her last. Gimli, who had shown his contrary stubbornness even from the womb, had insisted on coming out feet first, but he had managed to tear the afterbirth on his way out, and the haemorrhaging was nearly uncontrollable. That day, as he assisted Óin in trying to save his sister-by-law, Vakri had seen true fear on the old healer’s face. Vakri had not been allowed to do much, in regards to Vár’s bleeding, but Óin had trusted him to get the child breathing. Vakri had carefully cleaned his tiny mouth and nose, and helped him clear out lungs that were filled with liquid and he could still remember that first angry cry that had made him slump to the floor in relief that the pebble would live. The story Athalrún told was not news to him, for Blidarún had shared it one day, when he was telling her what little he knew of his own family history. Being orphaned by age twenty-five and spending almost five years trying to survive in a Man’s village until Óin had come across him, Vakri was old enough to remember his parents, but though he knew their names, he did not know the names and Clans of his grandparents. Athalrún told the story slightly different to her daughter, who had given him only the bare facts, but the gentle blacksmith was a masterful storyteller. If Vakri had not been so worried, he would have liked to sit and listen to the full tale, but his preoccupied mind caught only snatches. He remembered that Blidarún had told him Athalrún was the only daughter of a travelling bard, and he could hear bits of formal training come through in the way she told her story.

 

* * *

 

 

The two young Dwarrow waited, and eventually Bolbur relinquished his baby sister to Gimli, if only to stop the red-haired Dwarfling pacing. In Bolbur’s opinion, he was a few years older than Gimli, even if the other had ten years on him in age. Physically, Gimli was almost grown, only needing a bit more beard growth and a little more muscle to be a true adult, but Bolbur was actually bulkier. He wondered if the difference came down to his work in the forges, but talking to the other youngster that day revealed that Gimli was also slightly less mature mentally than Bolbur. Gimli had a bigger beard – something those who did not know Bolbur always teased him for was his lack of beard… even if his fists made them think twice before disparaging his Dwobbit blood more than once – and Bolbur was slightly jealous. He had inherited his dark brown hair from his mother, though Athalrún’s beard was as glorious as any dam’s, and he’d always been slightly jealous of Blidarún’s red locks; an inheritance from their Firebeard grandfather.

 

* * *

 

 

Vár smiled tiredly. Athalrún’s story was not finished, but the calm blacksmith was interrupted by Vakri’s order to push. With Dís on one side, and Athalrún on the other, Vár bore down against the pressure.

 

* * *

 

 

Later, as she lay tiredly with her new-born daughter in her arms, the tears came. The little boy had been born first; tiny, and pale, with no breath in his body. Dís had held her through the first storm of tear-filled realisation, crying her own tears of grief, while Athalrún had carefully cleaned the little life that never was.

“My second daughter was the same,” she said, almost silently as she handed Vár the lifeless bundle. “I called her Athalrós for my grandmother. So pretty, with her copper hair… but her sister lived. And I am thankful for my Fjelarún every day.” She knew that there was nothing she could say to make Vár feel better, and her heart clenched in remembered pain. Suddenly her arms felt far too empty without little Bomba, and Athalrún had to stop herself from running off to find Bolbur who was caring for his sister, while they waited for news.

“His name is Glovarin.” Dis and Athalrún both nodded. In Glóin’s absence, Vár would be the one to name her children, and the small boy would not be sent to Itdendûm nameless. Naming him for both his parents would ensure that as he grew, either to be reborn as a new Dwarf, or to await his family’s arrival beside him, he would know that he had been loved. Vakri left in sombre silence, Blidarún following quietly, tears trailing into her beard. Later, she would collapse in her mother’s arms, but for now she was the consummate Healer’s Apprentice, and Athalrún felt a bittersweet sting of both pain and pride at the sight. Her little one was becoming an adult so quickly.

The Singers would come, take the little pebble away, and return his small form to the Stone but for now, **Manaddadâna **Khazdâna Binganugâl Ôra**** shared the pain of longing for those who were not present. “She will be Várdís.” _She will be **Kerthâr bunmul**_[241], Vár thought. The Deep Name would be spoken only to the pebble, until Várdís herself chose to share it with someone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Vakri came out to tell them that only one pebble had lived, but that Vár was going to be alright, along with Gimli’s new little sister, the redhead burst into tears on Bolbur’s shoulder. The dark-haired Dwarf thanked his Maker that his sister was just as calm in a crisis as he was; Blidarún easily wrested little Bomba from Gimli, and let Bolbur wrap the young Dwarf – who seemed all the younger today of all days – in a big bear hug. When Gimli’s sobs had become hiccups, Bolbur wiped away his tears with one of Fjelarún’s handkerchiefs; his sister hated getting dirty, and they all carried one or two pieces of nice linen that she had stitched while she learned to sew. Athalrún had called it Fjelarún’s Hobbit inheritance, for the blacksmith had travelled in the Shire and met Hobbits before she had children. Bolbur did not think his Amad had revealed that she was related to any Hobbits, but she had done her best to learn things about her distant kin, and the propensity for owning handkerchiefs was one of the things that she had told them about. With a nod – Gimli was presentable once more – Bolbur sent off the other Dwarf towards the bedroom door. Then he wrapped his arm around Blidarún’s shoulders. Neither spoke, but they did not need to, simply being silent together as they held their youngest sibling and waited for their Amad’s return. Vakri left, with a soft hug for Blidarún and a warrior’s arm clasp for Bolbur, taking with him the bloodied bedding and what was left of the afterbirths to be burnt but Blidarún’s tasks were done. The little corpse would remain with his Amad until it was time for the ceremony, he said, leaving the three siblings to their own vigil. They would be permitted inside to see the new pebble when Vár said so.

 

* * *

 

 

Vár knew, when her little ember entered, that Vakri had told him about the death of his brother, and she simply opened her arms to let Gimli crawl onto the bed and rest next to her. Dís and Athalrún stepped aside, to let the Dwarfling meet his siblings, and give whatever comfort he could to his Amad. “This is Glovarin, **hursarusê** ,” she said softly, as she gave him the tiny body of his brother. Her tears continued to trail down her cheeks.

“ **Mukhuh mabaddakhi ya bunmû Mahal**[242],” Gimli whispered hoarsely, pressing a kiss to the tiny forehead. Vár smiled tearfully. Gimli handed Glovarin back to his Amad, who repeated the phrase. Dís took the little pebble from her, and Vár picked up the other bundle, though Gimli could see this one squirming a little underneath the wrappings.

“This is Várdís,” Vár said, her voice hitching on a small sob. Gimli carefully accepted the little pebble, smiling at his sister’s tiny face, scrunched up and red from the exertion of birth, but beautiful. Her skin was darker than his and her hair looked like Vár’s, but she had Glóin’s nose, which might be unfortunate if she didn’t grow into it, Gimli thought as he touched his own nose.

“ **Mukhuh Mahal madamusi ni akyâl, halwith**[243],” he smiled, before handing her back to Vár. “She’s so pretty.” She wasn’t really, not yet, but Gimli knew that she would be.

Mother and children rested together, and with a short blessing, Athalrún and Dís left the little family alone to grieve.

 

* * *

 

 

“Will she want to bring the pebble to Erebor, to be returned to the Stone there?” Athalrún asked quietly once Dís had closed the door behind them. The Princess’ face crumbled, as her tears began anew. Athalrún wrapped her in her comforting embrace, while Dís cried for her cousin’s fate. Bolbur and Blidarún joined the hug, needing their Amad’s reassuring touch, and Athalrún wrapped her free arm around little Bomba, as the four of them surrounded the grieving princess.

“I don’t know if Vár has even considered that…” Dís said, when she had composed herself once more. “Would the body not… spoil on the journey?” she could barely get the question out of her mouth, the words feeling like a choking mass in her throat.

“If it is…” Athalrún paused, sending off her two eldest children with a pat on the back and a sharp look. Bolbur nodded, dragging his sister off to the kitchen, “if it is properly embalmed, it will not.” Athalrún continued quietly. Dís could not decide if she should be horrified that her friend had considered the problem or grateful for her practicality. It was a peculiarly ruthless side to the calm blacksmith that Dís had not before seen. “I think… it has been many years since my Athalrós did not open her eyes to see the light of the world, but I like to visit the Stone that holds her from time to time,” Athalrún whispered. “If they move to Erebor without Glovarin… I do not think it wise. Vár will find reconciling his death difficult enough without being half a world away from his Stone.”

“But you will be, too,” Dís said, suddenly realising that Athalrún would be leaving her daughter, long-since turned to dust and returned to the Stone, but still, _this_ stone was the one that had known Athalrós the Second.

“Bifur swore that he would return, and sing her Stone free. She will be taken to Erebor and we will put her to rest once more in the green stone of our new home. Twenty-five years is more than enough time for her dust to become part of the Stone. Travelling with a fresh body, however, will require planning.” Dís felt shamed for her earlier thoughts, as Athalrún obviously had considered the situation long and hard for her own family and was simply applying her own feelings to Vár’s situation.

“I will ask her, when it is slightly further from her mind.” Dís swore, but Athalrún shook her head.

“She will have to decide soon. Vakri will have sent for the Singer already. I had Bifur, my brother by marriage, and I was allowed to keep my pebble for a full day to say our goodbyes, but I don’t know if Master Singer Melka will give Vár the time she wants.” Dís nodded. Melka was married to Sviurr and every bit as competitive as her husband. It would be just like her to take Glovarin away quickly, just to spite Vár. Melka had never been blessed by the Life-Giver, and she was getting too old to bear pebbles, so it was unlikely she would ever have one of her own. Her barren marriage had made the Dwarrowdam bitter and resentful, and her husband’s enmity towards Glóin and Vár’s merchant business coupled with her own venomous heart, would almost ensure that Melka would not listen to the mother’s plea to keep her child a little longer. Many were jealous of the status Vár enjoyed with the Princess Dís, and neither Athalrún nor Dís wanted to cause any gossip.

“I will deal with Melka.” Dís swore fervently. She owed Vár for all these months of constant support and company. “What will we need to preserve Glovarin’s remains until we can reach the Mountain?”

“Blidarún! Bolbur!” Athalrún called. Her children came quickly, used to obeying their Amad swiftly, though she did not usually have to shout to catch their attention.

“Yes, Amad?” Bolbur said, quietly.

“I need you to go with your sister. Find Healer Vakri, and tell him we will need to embalm the body. Fetch whatever he needs, and bring it here. Do it quickly, and tell no one what you’re doing.”

“Yes, Amad,” Blidarún said, when Bolbur nodded. He was burning with curiosity, but their Amad had her ‘Don’t ask questions now’-face on, and Bolbur knew better than to let his questions trip off his tongue. Amad would tell them why the little body was going to be embalmed later, Bolbur guessed, but for now, they were required to run. Athalrún’s children were often seen running all over Thorinuldûm, so it would not make anyone bat an eye to see Bolbur and Blidarún out on the streets, but Dís herself would never escape the scrutiny of their neighbours. As far as the village was concerned, Dís had to stay beside her incumbent friend, supporting her during the time of birthing. The Princess smiled at her friend, grateful for Athalrún’s particular brand of practicality and logic.

  

* * *

 

 

When Athalrún had told her about her own stillborn pebble, Vár had been unable to feel sympathy, lost in her own grief for little Glovarin. When the blacksmith first asked her if she would want to preserve the little body that it might be returned to the Stone in Erebor, however, Vár flew into a rage the likes of which she had never before felt. Athalrún – whom she had counted as a friend – wanted to mummify her little boy and take him on a four-month journey to Erebor! If she had not been so sore – and if Várdís had not been sleeping in her arms – she would have taken a swing at Athalrún. It was not until she saw the tears in Athalrún’s eyes that she realised that the quiet dwarrowdam was offering her a choice; a chance to keep her baby boy where she could speak to the echo of his soul and feel like it heard her. The other choice was to leave him to be burned, and his ashes kept in the Ered Luin Stone Hall of the Dead until they had petrified enough to move the whole block of stone, which was what Athalrún would do with her own daughter’s Stone when her family left Thorinuldûm.

Vár had never missed Glóin as much as she did in that moment.

She nodded.

 

 

###### notes:

[240] Young drum, nickname.

[241] Graceful runes

[242] May we meet again with the grace of Mahal.

[243] May Mahal let you be welcomed to life, little sweetie.


	39. Songs and Celebrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo feels accepted, introductions are made and explanations given; The Victory Feast commences.

After a long day of helping in the kitchen, Bilbo had had another long bath, as warm as he could stand it and scented with some fragrant oil Nori had probably nicked from the Elves. The Thief had lobbed the bottle in his direction when he walked past him in deep conversation with Dwalin on the way to the bathing chamber Dori had shown him the night before. The two Dwarrow were both looking properly dressed, Bilbo noted, even fancier than they had been on the night in Laketown when they had had to cow the Master. He felt even grubbier in comparison, and he was grateful that Dori had made him new clothes. The Dwarrow left him to it and Bilbo felt a fervent wave of gratitude for Dáin, who had brought enough fuel to fire up one of the massive furnaces in the Great Forges and thus provided both a temperate Mountain – when it eventually heated up – and the heat for the cauldrons of Bilbo’s bathwater. The Hobbit was unaware that the warm water actually came from natural hot springs, though he would have had to thank Dáin’s foresight either way; it was Dáin who had set his engineers to the task of reopening the ancient aqueducts and water-pipes that fed the warm water from the springs to the taps in the richer areas of the Mountain. The Dragon had blocked access to the public baths constructed in Erebor’s depths by collapsing the bridge that led there, but an intrepid engineer had devised an ingenious rope-bridge, which meant that those who dared cross the wide chasm could bathe directly in the pools. Feeding water through the pipes was far easier to repair, as it only involved turning – after a great deal of cleaning and oiling of ancient gears, obviously – a massive valve to divert the flow back into the pipes. Dáin had also ensured that the icy waters of the River Running had flushed the pipes leading to the biggest of the communal kitchens, as well as the smaller one in the Palace, which Bombur had gleefully assumed command of. The Victory Feast that evening, Bilbo had been told, would feature some of the signature dishes of the Longbeards, with more spices than Bombur had been able to bring along. Bilbo had mostly been chopping vegetables for stews, but the smell of the fluffy rolls and autumn tarts Maeassel had baked reminded him of home. Bilbo was looking forward to the party, which promised to be quite grand, even if the attendance was diminished compared to Bombur’s first estimate. Less than fifty Elves remained, and no more than ten or so Men, aside from the wounded in the Ruby Ward, had elected to remain with their new King – mostly unmarried young men, though a couple of old grizzled ones were left behind too. Of the Iron Hills Dwarrow, about eighty remained, having been employed by the crafty Balin for the winter as labourers. Another fifty had been too injured to risk the trek back home and would either join the rebuilding efforts or leave as the weather permitted when their injuries mended.

 

* * *

 

 

Dáin had attached himself to Bard. King Thranduil was far too shrewd and experienced with Dwarven culture to do anything inadvertently insulting, but the Man did not have the same diplomatic training. The loud and at times brash leader of the Iron Hills might not be the best teacher, but Dáin still took Bard under his wing, explaining the ceremony that would surround the Victory Feast. He had had very little time in the company of his cousin, and was especially keen to meet the infamous Master Burglar, who had been spirited away before he could ascertain whether this Hobbit – what was a Hobbit anyway? – was really as evil as he had been painted. Dáin did not understand why Lord Dori – who seemed an eminently sensible Dwarf – had demanded his guards leave the traitorous creature alone, but he trusted that Thorin would eventually provide some sort of explanation for that too.

 

 

* * *

 

“Ahh, Master Baggins, there you are. Good to see you looking so well.” Thorin said, slightly relieved to see his smallest companion looking more like himself than the tattered and sorry state he had been in when Dori finally managed to find him. He would have to thank the lace-maker; Bilbo’s outfit was better than he had thought they could manage on such short notice. Looking the Hobbit over was an excuse not to stare at Dwalin, who looked good enough to eat, but who avoided his gaze. Putting Bilbo in the colours of his House was a bold statement, but he had asked Dori to make it as obvious as possible that he bore no ill will towards their little burglar.

“Good evening,” Bilbo said, nervously looking around the small anteroom that held the Company. He felt inexplicably unnerved by the air of solemnity that suffused the small group. A chorus of greetings replied to his own meek words, and Bilbo slowly began to relax. Bofur’s gentle smile and the pat on his arm that came from the silent Bifur, however, set him a little more at ease, along with Thorin’s obvious approval of his clothes. Bilbo still felt a little wary in the King’s company, but he had told himself sternly before Glóin let him in the door that he had to get over the twinges of fear. Thorin had not been in his right mind, and Bilbo was not even bruised from his large hands. Thorin’s heartfelt apology, both on the field and later in his study, went a long way towards making Bilbo forgive him for dangling him over the battlements. Forgiveness did not immediately bring with it a sense of safety, however, so Bilbo stuck close to Dori’s side. He had liked the tailor since that first night; Dori had been a pillar of good manners compared to the rest, and had actually thanked Bilbo for the meal as well as praised his baking, almost as though he had read up on what passed for polite guest behaviour among Hobbits.

Fíli, his good blue eye twinkling, leaned in close, “I see you too have been subjected to Dori’s kind gifts with the needle,” he winked, tapping the eye-patch that covered his ruined eye, which was still lightly bandaged. The patch itself was the same colour as Bilbo’s jacket, Durin blue, but it had been stitched with a motif of seven stars above a crown, which floated above a hammer and anvil in silver thread. Thorin too, was dressed in a blue tunic, and Bilbo could see the colour recurring in several of the others’ garb too. Kíli, beside his brother, was leaning heavily on the crutch beneath his arm, still not healed from the ‘Death-Eater’ poison’s ravages. In truth, Bilbo thought the younger Prince should probably have been in bed, but he knew that sheer stubbornness would keep Kíli standing, at least long enough to enjoy the beginning of the great feast.

“Yes, it was most kind of Dori to make me some new clothes,” Bilbo sent the mithril-haired Dwarf a smile, which Dori returned with a pleased nod. “My old ones were not even fit for rags anymore,” he said, a little sheepishly, which made Nori laugh behind him. Bilbo jumped, whirling on the star-haired Dwarf, who gave him a cheeky unrepentant smile before he sauntered off to stand between Dori and Dwalin, engaging the bald Dwarf in a low conversation which made him frown.

“Everyone ready?” Balin’s wry tones interrupted the moment, and the old advisor quickly had them all lined up in front of the grand doors that lead to the main Feasting Hall. Thorin walked in front – alone, though Balin shot his younger brother a scowl, which Dwalin returned with a small frown as he took up position next to Nori – Fíli and Kíli followed their Uncle. Behind them came Glóin with Óin, followed by Bombur and Bifur, then Bilbo with Bofur, Dori with Ori, Nori and Dwalin as the last pair and Balin brought up the rear, whispering furiously with his brother at a volume Nori wisely pretended not to hear.

 

* * *

 

Walking into the Victory Feast as a Lord of Erebor – there was going to be an official ceremony a day or so after, even though they had already had one while they were alone in the Mountain – Ori felt nervous, wanting to shy away from all the eyes that were on him, but he held his head high, copying Dori’s flawless posture. When Dori stood, every inch the proper Royal Master of Ceremonies, Ori’s heart swelled with pride. He knew that the others considered Dori a bit too proper at times, but she was perfect for this role, finely dressed and her beard and hair carefully braided, even if – he hadn’t noticed before – she still wore the braids for First Son, which surprised him. Ori had thought she would leap at the chance to be a dam again, but he did not mention it when Dori took the seat beside him. It was Dori’s choice who knew she was a dam and who did not, and it didn’t really matter to Ori. Dori was still his sister and almost-mother, even when she was pretending to be male.

 

* * *

 

When they walked into the Hall, a single voice rose in song. It was Flóki, standing in front of the King’s table. He was not using High Khuzdul, simply singing a welcome home song in regular Khuzdul, but Bilbo did not know that, simply thinking the music strangely beautiful, if a bit mournful and quite haunting. It made shivers travel up his spine. Looking around the room, only Dwarrow were at the Feast, which Bilbo considered odd; he knew Bard – at least – was in the Mountain, and he couldn’t imagine Legolas having gone home either. The song travelled through the room, rolling back towards them when it hit the walls. When Thorin took his seat, flanked by Fíli and Kíli, at the middle of the table, where he could look over the Hall, Flóki’s song ended.

“Defenders of Erebor!” Thorin shouted, standing from his seat and gesturing towards the collected Dwarrow. As one, they raised their tankards towards their King. “Greet your allies, that they may feel welcome at our celebrations!” Thorin commanded, and the noise level rose drastically. Bilbo had not seen Dori slip away, but now he caught sight of him off to the side, gesturing at one of the Dwarrow who were standing at the door. Bilbo recognised Andvari, the friendlier of the two guards he had met outside Erebor. Andvari and another Dwarf pulled on the great doors, and Bilbo realised that even though the doors they have come in through had been grand, they had actually just been the Royal Family’s private entryway. The doors that opened were large enough to admit a Man standing on the shoulders of another Man and flanked by three Bomburs on either side, Bilbo was sure. In front of the doors, the first to enter, was a red-haired Dwarf Bilbo had only seen from far away – Dáin Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills. Behind him stood Prince Legolas, flanked by an elven guard, most of whom Bilbo did not recognise, but he smiled to see the stern face of Bronwe next to the Elvenking. The Captain had made sure that Bilbo made it to Bard’s tent while Curulhénes was busy with packing up the last of their gear.

“Erebor greets our cousin, Dáin, son of Náin, son of Grór, called Ironfoot, Lord of the Iron Hills,” Dori called out clearly, as Dáin crossed the threshold. The Dwarrow in the Hall roared their approval. Dáin himself moved slowly up the central passage between tables, heading straight for Thorin’s tall figure. The King had moved around, to stand in front of the table, taking the place Flóki had used for his welcome and when Dáin reached him, the two cousins embraced heartily, with another one of those head-butts that had made Bilbo cringe to witness in Bag End.

“Welcome, Cousin, to Erebor!” Thorin shouted, making the gathered Dwarrow bellow their approval. Dáin grinned.

“And happy I am to be here!” he replied, and Thorin waved him off to find a seat at the head table.

“Erebor greets our ally, Thranduil, King of Mirkwood,” Dori called. The Elf slowly entered the Hall, but the Dwarrow greeted him just as enthusiastically as they had Dáin.

“ _Le suilanthon, Thorin Aran Anfangrim. Êl síla erin lû e-govaned 'wîn_[244].” Thranduil said politely. Behind him followed Legolas, who copied his father’s bow.

“ _Le suilanthon, Thranduil Aran Tawarwaith_ ,” Thorin replied, in almost flawlessly pronounced Sindarin. At the head table, Balin smiled proudly. “ _Galdol!_[245]” When Thorin had greeted him with a warm handshake, the Elvenking was also seated at the head table.

“Erebor greets our ally, Bard, descendant of Giron of Dale, King of Dale Restored,” shouted Dori, to be heard over the din. Bard looked slightly uncomfortable walking into the wall of noise that was the interior of the Feasting Hall, but he held his head high and nodded at a few of the closest Dwarrow. The cheering was deafening.

“Welcome, Bard, to Erebor!” Thorin greeted, shaking the Man’s hand easily.

“And happy I am to be here!” Bard copied the ritual greeting, as Dáin had informed him he should and was shown to a seat near Dáin, while Thorin made his way back to his own place in the middle. Captain Bronwe, having no intention of leaving Thranduil’s side, had followed his King, taking up position behind him. When Thorin reached the ornately carved chair that was his – to Bilbo it looked rather like he had imagined a throne should, when he had read fairy tales as a fauntling, but it was apparently just a chair – he stood before his plate. He raised his remaining hand. The noise in the Hall died, almost like snuffing out a candle. Every eye was on the dark-haired King of Durin’s Folk.

 

* * *

 

“We stand here, in Erebor reclaimed,” Thorin began quietly, feeling suddenly emotional. He had presided over affairs like this one before, most notably after Azanulbizar, but also when cave-ins claimed the lives of their miners would the King officiate if he was in residence. Looking at the assembled crowd, he could not help but compare them to the empty eyes that had stared back at him when he returned to Thorinuldûm after the War. “And we have paid dearly for the privilege…” In his mind, he counted their names silently, _Frerin, Thrór, Thráin, Fundin, Víli, Hanar, Vris… Amad._ The list was longer, but he allowed his personal losses on the long road home to fill his mind, as he knew all those seated before him did too. “TO THE HONOURED DEAD!” the last sentence, he roared with all the might with which he had screamed his challenge at Smaug, and the crowd – including the Company, as well as the Men and the Elves – roared back to him, the phrase echoing loudly. At a gesture from Thorin, however, instant silence fell once more. This too, had the feeling of ritual, and when Thorin raised his cup, everyone followed his example. He was slightly surprised at the ready participation of the Elvenking and his son, which the rest of the Elves followed easily, but on second thought it did not surprise him at all. Thranduil at least, would have been familiar with the ritual, and grief was a universal feeling – mortal or not. “For those who cannot, we drink.” Thorin said, taking a sip. “For those who cannot, we will dance.” Another sip followed, each copied by the gathered crowd. “For those who cannot join us, we will feast.” Even those unfamiliar with this ritual followed his every move now. “For those who are waking in the Halls of Waiting, WE WILL SING!” Thorin bellowed, emptying his goblet and throwing it high into the air. The space above the tables was suddenly filled with flying cups. Thorin caught his goblet. He had had to practise beforehand, late the night before, and only Balin had witnessed his many fumbles. His balance was off, but he congratulated himself that he did not dishonour his forebears by stumbling like a drunk.

 

* * *

 

Legolas and the other Elves easily managed to regain their cups, but Bilbo was not so lucky. His had hit another in mid-air, but Nori’s quick reflexes caught it before it smashed into his skull rather than where he had expected it to fall. When no more cups were flying, Thorin sat down slowly, and with a gesture from Dori, the Hall was suddenly filled with movement as those closest to the doors to the kitchens jumped up and began carrying in platters and bowls and all manner of delicious food that looked mostly foreign to Bilbo. The Hobbit felt quietly pleased to be seated next to Glóin; if he had had to rely on Nori on his other side to steer him right in regards to the spiciness – Bombur had warned him that Dwarrow were quite fond of dishes with plenty of heat – his mouth would have been on fire more than once, he was sure. Nori’s smirk when he voiced that concern to Glóin, who had Legolas on his other side, was enough to make Bilbo entirely certain that he would have regretted taking Nori’s word on the food. As the evening wore on, however, he rather regretted not taking up space near Dori – who was quite pleasant company – or Bombur – who was always happy to discuss food. As Glóin’s consumption of ale increased, so did his maudlin monologue about how much he missed his wife. Bilbo could have lived without a full five minutes description of Vár’s eyebrows, really.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil had been seated between Thorin and Bard, as Dáin took Thorin’s other side. Captain Bronwe was a silent presence behind him, but he knew that his old friend would be watching their new allies closely; Thranduil had always believed in being well-informed – even if he rarely gave away what secrets he knew or guessed about those around him. Tonight, he noted the careful way Dwalin pretended not to be looking at Thorin, engrossed in conversation with Dori every time the Dwarf-King looked his way. For Thorin’s part, his glances at Dwalin were almost involuntary, as though he only looked when he could not keep himself from doing so. Thranduil wondered what had happened between the two. He had noticed their apparent distance at the Entrance Ceremony, but the rift between the King and his Consort was obviously deeper than he had assumed while his mind was occupied with worry about Rhonith. As that thought crossed his mind, he cast a look around the room for Esgalwathon, but the _Vanyaro_ was nowhere to be seen. His absence did not puzzle Thranduil as much as Dwalin and Thorin’s behaviours, however, guessing that the Vanyaro would be spending most of his time watching over his charge.

 

* * *

 

On Glóin’s other side, Legolas was having a hard time holding on to his stoicism. He rather admired Glóin’s persistency, if nothing else; the Dwarf had not used the same simile twice to describe his beloved wife – apparently a paragon of Dwarven beauty with her many dark braids and her finely plaited beard – Legolas didn’t think he would find her as gloriously beautiful if they met, but he was amused nonetheless. The picture in Glóin’s locket, which he opened more than once during the evening, showed a shrewd smile and dark eyes, in a face that was a bit too wide for Legolas to consider it pretty, but he took the Dwarf’s word for it. After all, Rhonith had once told him that Glóin himself was considered very handsome among Dwarrow, which had made him shake his head. The Dwarf had an impressively bushy beard –kept under control with silver clasps and beads – and his eyes were kind, but Legolas could not really see the beauty in his features, which were a little too rugged compared to the sleek Elven bone structure he was used to. His nose – while it did seem to fit his face – was far too big, and Legolas privately wondered how he managed to kiss his wife without bumping into hers, which was an equally impressive specimen. Their son, whose name was Gimli, looked like a miniature of his father, except for his very small beard, but Glóin loftily informed him that Gimli’s beard would be a sight to see when it was fully grown in about five decades. Thankfully, they were soon rescued by Balin’s quiet presence, leading both the Elf and the Hobbit away from the feast, which seemed to be taking a slight break. The two, along with the future King Bard, were led to a smaller chamber, where Thorin waited along with the Princes, King Thranduil, and Dáin.

 

* * *

 

 

“Thank you, Balin.” Balin bowed once, and closed the door behind him as he left. Bilbo swallowed, a little nervous. The merry fire at the side of the room did not raise his spirits. Dáin did not look happy, Bard seemed a little confused, and Thranduil was as inscrutable as ever. Thorin smiled, gesturing Bilbo closer. “Master Baggins, I want to introduce you properly to my cousin, Dáin Ironfoot. Dáin, this is Master Bilbo Baggins, of the Shire, our **Unkadu amzâl.** ” Thorin’s hand was heavy on Bilbo’s shoulder, but the Hobbit felt grounded by the weight.

“So this is the Hobbit,” Dáin said, unknowingly repeating Thorin’s appraisal from the night they met. At any other time, it might have made Bilbo crack a smile, but he was far too nervous.

“Pleased to –er, meet you,” he said, sticking out his hand and praying that it would be steady.

“Well, he looks more like a merchant than a burglar, but I suppose anyone who can steal the Arkenstone has earned a Burglar’s title, eh, Master Hobbit!” Dáin laughed uproariously at his own joke, while Bilbo managed a pale smile. Merchant was at least a little better than grocer, he thought, the thought taking on a slightly hysterical edge. Dáin clapped him on the other shoulder, still laughing loudly at his own joke. Thorin, who remembered the same meeting as Bilbo, simply smiled.

“Err, I guess so?” Bilbo could not help but ask.

“If’n you tells me true, yon Hobbit saved your life, cousin.” Dáin rumbled. “I’ll make sure the guards are aware that he is to walk freely among us.” Thorin bowed his head in recognition and Bilbo felt the last spasm of unease leave his soul. Perhaps now he could walk the halls of Erebor without feeling unfriendly eyes boring into his spine. “Wha’ ‘bout the Arkenstone, though, Thorin? Is it still with Master Burglar Baggins?” Dáin continued staring at Bilbo as though the Arkenstone was in his pocket this very minute.

“We will discuss the return of the Arkenstone later. For now, it is in the keeping of Bard. I want the wizard to have a look before I let it anywhere near my Mountain,” Thorin rumbled sagely, pulling out a pipe and stuffing it calmly; he had already learned how to hold it steady between his knees while his remaining hand worked the dried leaves into the barrel. Dáin nodded.

“Aye, Cousin, that might be for the best. We were told how Lady Geira reacted to it, and frankly, something that scares an Elf is not something I’d want lying around unguarded,” he said, nicking Thorin’s tobacco pouch and filling his own pipe. Bilbo felt slightly left over, and a look at Legolas and Bard showed the same emotion. Thranduil showed no discernible emotion, but Bilbo would have guessed he was amused by the Dwarf’s assessment.

“That is a topic for another day, however. I trust you have met Prince Legolas as well as King Bard, cousin?” Thorin said, letting Dáin light his pipe. The Lord of the Iron Hills nodded.

“Aye, we’ve met.” He turned to Legolas, “Yer the one as wanted to shoot ma ram,” another booming laugh followed the statement. “when Princess Geira rode off with me.”

“If it had harmed her, it would be dead,” Legolas replied calmly, but the implied threat did nothing to diminish Dáin’s mirth.

“Aye, lad, I like you,” he slapped Legolas’ shoulder – or tried to, but it was more arm than shoulder with their difference in height. “Taking care of our kin already, we’ll make a decent Dwarf of you yet, princeling.” With a nod, he turned back to Thorin.

“There will be a trial for my actions at the Gate, and one for Bilbo’s taking of the stone, but that discussion is for a later date,” Thorin puffed easily on his pipe, blowing a perfect smoke ring. “We will meet on the morrow or day after to determine what is to be done with the Arkenstone.” With that, the small audience seemed to be concluded, and Dáin took it upon himself to lead Bilbo back towards the Feasting Hall when Thorin sank heavily into his chair, pensively staring at the fire. Legolas and Thranduil remained behind, but Bard returned to the feast with them, listening quietly as Dáin regaled Bilbo with the tale of their journey to Erebor – hasty and generally uncomfortable, to put it politely…which Dáin definitely did not – all the way back to his seat.

To Bilbo’s relief, Glóin had abandoned his seat, which had been taken over by Dori, who was whispering with Nori, but the two brothers welcomed Bilbo back easily, Dori quickly refilling his plate with things he was sure to enjoy. Nori seemed a little put out that he would not get to prank Bilbo, but Dori’s stern look had his griping subside quickly, instead launching into a well-informed explanation of the different dishes and their methods of preparation. The Bat-wing stew – apparently a delicacy from the Grey Mountains – was praised highly, and Bilbo had to admit that it was quite tasty as long as he kept from thinking about the giant bats that had swarmed the field of battle, blocking out the sun until the Eagles arrived. In a way, he thought, after the first few bites, eating them was the perfect revenge. After that, Bilbo was less worried about what exactly filled his plate, and the two brothers entertained him for the rest of the evening.

 

* * *

 

 

Bofur, never one to let a broken bone stop him from having a party, spent most of his night chatting up a golden-haired Dwarf from the Iron Hills. The sight made his brother and cousin exchange fond smiles. Bofur had always had a thing for blondes. Beside the miner sat Ori, who – away from Dori’s side – seemed to be indulging in one pint after the other. The young Dwarf did not look festive, however, and as the hours grew later, Bifur’s from deepened, until the Lord Cantor felt a need to alert Dori to the scribe’s inebriation. Making his way along the table to tap the tailor’s shoulder, Bifur accidentally stepped on Healer Lívhild’s toes. While he was busy signing a fervent apology, however, Ori seemingly reached his limit. The young scribe – to Bofur’s hearty encouragement – climbed atop the table and began a surprisingly good rendition of ‘Man in the Moon’. Sighing at his cousin, who was clapping and singing along, Bifur signed a quick apology for abandoning Mistress Lívhild so suddenly and continued to the corner where Dori and Nori had taken Master Baggins under their wing.

 

* * *

 

 

Bombur wanted to leave. He had done what he had set out to do, and told Balin as much. The old advisor smiled understandingly, but he also knew that they needed Bombur’s skills in the mountain. They did not have many properly trained Architects, and very few Dwarrow were born with Bombur’s impressive stone senses, which the cook-cum-architect knew very well.

“Can Athalrún travel without you going to Ered Luin to fetch her?” Balin asked, but Bombur did not want to consider sending off his wife – who was capable of her own defence – as well as his children – who, aside from Bolbur, were not – into the Wilds alone and unguarded. The answer came from Fíli, who had been listening to the two Companions. He had sent Kíli off to bed as soon as his younger brother was done eating.

“Can’t she come with Amad?” he asked. “I know Uncle Thorin sent Amad a message when we killed Smaug, to tell her to begin packing and coming here as soon as possible. If you ask Legolas, I’m sure he would grant them a company of guards through the forest; perhaps they could even get Elves to lead them through the Misty Mountains, if we send a bird to Lord Elrond. That should be safe. Amad won’t be travelling without guards, and she’ll be bringing a lot of Dwarrow along for the restoration and resettlement. Send her a raven at once to bring Athalrún along, if she hasn’t thought of it already. I know cousin Vár will want to help; she’s very good at organising caravans.”

 

* * *

 

 

Legolas, after paying his proper goodbyes to Thorin, had at first gone down to sit with Rhonith’s…egg. He adamantly refused – even in his thoughts – to call it a tomb, though that was what it most resembled, he thought, even if it was of such intricate and otherworldly making that it could not have been shaped by any mortal hand. He did not think even the Elves could have copied the fine patterns, even if they had used thread to shape them. He tried not to look at it for too long, the hypnotic quality of trying to puzzle out the different layers was a sure-fire way to give himself an annoying headache. He could hear the party going strong, but the Stones seemed to be making him ill quicker this time, and Legolas left quickly, making his way through the empty halls until he reached the room he had been given. He was growing to like the small gemstone flowers, the bright colours catching the light of his candle. It was nothing like a real flower, but it was strangely beautiful nonetheless.

 

* * *

 

 

“How well did the Elves of Eregion know their neighbours?” Thorin asked quietly, when the room had emptied but for himself and Thranduil who was staring pensively at the dancing fire.

“Some very well, others less,” the Elvenking replied vaguely. “If you’re asking me about the Vanyaro, however, he would have known your customs exceedingly well. Celebrimbor, of course, received a lot of knowledge simply through observing his friends and his wife, though I don’t doubt that Narví told him many things – not least to prepare him for raising a half-Dwarven daughter after her death. Lord Esgalwathon, as Rhonith’s Vanyaro, would have been taught almost as much. The Vanyaro Voronwa are an ancient order, Thorin, founded by High King Finwe, Rhonith’s great great grandfather, in Valinor, during the Years of the Two Trees. Valinor was a place of peace in those days, Melkor’s power not yet at its strongest, and the Vanyaro were meant both as protectors and friends. The rituals are ancient, but as it was explained to me by my mother, the Vanyaro swear their very life to their charges. It is an eternal bond, which is what gave name to their order: The Eternal Protectors.”

“So why was he not with Geira when we met her?” Thorin wondered.

“Sellig would never have accepted that she needed a protector on such a simple journey as the one from Lothlórien to Imladris,” Thranduil chuckled. “Lord Esgalwathon has not set foot in my own Realm for almost four thousand years,” he continued, “I did not even recognise him when he arrived here. I know that on her longer journeys, however, he travels with her.” After the first meeting, his mind whirling with dread, he had recognised the dark-haired Noldo, and marvelled at the lack of perceptible scarring. Last time he had seen the Vanyaro, Esgalwathon had been alternatively deep red and bright pink, where he was not covered in salves and ointments.

“He did something peculiar earlier, in the Dwelling of Song,” Thorin admitted. He had understood the purpose at the time, though he had been peeved that the Elf had not asked his permission. “The Rite of Protection.”

“I see,” Thranduil replied, gazing intently at the crackling flames. “I am not surprised. I remember the feeling well. The Stones resonate in our bones, Thorin, a highly uncomfortable sensation. I understand my son fainted from the experience.” Thorin chuckled, puffing on his pipe in lieu of a verbal response. “When she was placed among them after her captivity, they did not behave as Legolas has described it to me. The Stones did not encase her body, which was remarkably unmarred, though they filled the Dwelling with the Song of Remembrance. King Durin granted me rights as Rhonith’s kin to stay with her, as I was the only one whose presence she would tolerate, which negated the effects somewhat though it was by no means pleasant. My Nínimeth was inconsolable, and Durin was too young to have regained most of his previous memories of her and of course Celebrimbor was missing.”

“Shouldn’t this Esgalwathon have been there?” Thorin asked. If the elf was so familiar with their customs, it seemed peculiar that he would have been absent during Geira’s convalescence.

“Esgalwathon was the one who found the Dragon’s Lair, Thorin,” Thranduil sighed. “He tried to go in after her alone, desperate to bring her to safety. He barely survived. Some of our greatest healers were fighting for his life when we went in there to get her out. The dragon tried very hard to burn him alive, and I believe only his love for his charge and his stubbornness allowed him to stay standing long enough to find someone to bring a message to Nínimeth. It took him months to recover; all the time I spent in the Stones, he was in the Halls of Healing. Last time I saw him, he still could not move and he was covered in bandages.” Unconsciously, Thranduil’s hand lifted, stroking long fingers over pale skin that had once been burned by dragonfire. He had been lucky, and though his injuries were severe, they were not as life-threatening as those suffered by Esgalwathon. Seeing the gesture, Thorin wondered if – beneath the smooth skin he had seen earlier – the same scars covered Esgalwathon’s chest.

 

* * *

 

 

Pulling her younger brother off the table was not difficult for Dori. Carrying the sleepily protesting drunk to bed wasn’t something she had not done before. While Ori was hardly as wild as Nori had been, he had had his share of nights out with fellow apprentices, though he was usually more or less sober at the end of the night. Dori was more than a little worried at this uncharacteristic consumption of ale, but she would have to wait for answers. Ori fell asleep before they even reached the house she had picked for them, looking almost like the Dwarfling he had been as he cuddled into her hold. Dori sighed, putting the small scribe to bed with a gentle kiss on his forehead. Locating a convenient bucket and placing it beside the bed, Dori took up position in a comfortable armchair she had salvaged from one of the other rooms. 

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin had gone down to the Stones once more, when he had finished his pipe, dressed in his finest clothes this time. Dori had adamantly refused to let him wear anything from Thrór’s wardrobe, which had left Thorin a little amused, but he had been too tired to argue. Spending his afternoon going over diplomatic contracts was never fun, but it was the duty of a leader to do so. He missed Dís. Her sharp tongue would have dissected all their pretences with his usual blunt manner. With a groan, he sat down with his back resting against the oblong egg-shaped stone that held his aunt’s body. From far above, he could hear snatches of raucous song and rowdy partying. He did not know the song, but he recognised Bofur’s voice leading the chorus merrily.

_For our home, for the might of our race_  
_for the realm of Thrór_  
_For Mahal, the Way and the Voice_  
_we go, we go to Erebor!_

_O Mahal, Maker of Dwarrow_  
Watch over your sons on this journey  
_for the glory of our songs and legends_  
We leave, seeking the dragon’s end

  
_For Mahal, the father of all_  
_We will sing this tale._

 

“I wish you could see us tonight, Irakamad… but you will listen to our songs.” he whispered into the dim cavern. The Song rose and dipped around him, like eddies in a river. For a second, he thought he could hear her voice in it, calling him **kundanud**[246], like she had when he had dreamed of being Thorin I. Shaking his head to dispel the memory, Thorin got to his feet slowly. Óin had finally convinced him to bring a walking stick to take some of the weight off his still healing hip.

Thorin smiled. Tonight… tonight was a good night. He would forget all the things that haunted his thoughts tonight and simply enjoy the taste of victory, enjoy feasting with his kin.

 

* * *

 

 

Nurtalëon did spend his evening watching over his charge. Hiding in the shadows – he had always been able to blend in so well as to be practically invisible, and didn’t really need the Lothlórien moth-silk cloak he wore – he watched as a steady stream of people found their way down to the Singing Stones. He was not surprised to see Thorin or Dwalin, though he was slightly impressed that the Prince of Mirkwood dared return so soon after his first visit. Young Legolas was braver than he thought. He well remembered the first time he had visited the Stones in Hadhodrond as a young ellon just past his first millennium. He hadn’t lasted more than ten minutes before the uncomfortable sensation made him violently ill. He considered speaking to Legolas, but the Prince seemed preoccupied with his own mind and Nurtalëon could only guess at his thoughts when he stared at the egg-shaped casket that held the Princess. Nurtalëon wondered if he ought to stop the younger ellon from touching the stone, but Legolas did not quite dare to try. Instead, he simply whirled away, unknowingly staring straight at Nurtalëon, who did not move, and strode briskly up the stairs. _Interesting_ , Nurtalëon thought, _so the youngest son of Nínimeth has given you his heart… I wonder if you know, Aiwë._

 

* * *

 

 

Dwalin left the party once Thorin had been gone for a while. He knew that his One – was he still his One? – would want to introduce Bilbo to their cousin in private, to avoid a larger spectacle. Dáin had earned his reputation for being a bit brash at times, and though he was a considerate and cautious leader, Dwalin did not want to consider what mad ideas for punishment might pop into Dáin’s head if left to his own devices. When he was sure Thorin would not notice his absence, he left quietly, making his way to the one place in Erebor that had always been a sanctuary. The Amrab-rirakîn was empty, aside from Geira’s casket, and Dwalin spent a few hours down there, letting the memory of his mother’s Voice fill his heart with peace.

When he went to bed, he had still not made his mind up, but his dreams were less plagued with visions of death and gore, and he only woke up screaming once. By then, it was late enough to be considered almost morning, Dwalin reasoned, and got up to get ready for the new day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The bald Dwarf was interesting, Nurtalëon decided, observing him from the shadows. He had not taken much note of the Shumrozbid earlier, but it was clear that Lord Dwalin had a greater than average affinity for the Stones. The Dwarf seemed to be listening to the Song around him, which Nurtalëon could not hear. He could feel fatigue seeping into his own bones; while the rituals he had undergone more than five millennia before protected him from the worst effects of the Stone Song, he was not as immune as he had seemed to Legolas. The Stone Mother’s blessing enabled him to withstand the Song, though not indefinitely. Touching the tattoo on his chest, and running his hand along the stone egg, the Vanyaro left as silently as he had entered, making his way up the steps that led to the inhabited areas of Erebor. He had been here before, though his last visit lay almost 200 years in the past. He had been allowed to see baby Thorin, swaddled in his mother’s arms as Frís presented the pebble to her sister, though Thrór’s obvious animosity had cut their visit short; the King had already been unfriendly towards Elves, and Galadriel’s recent warning had not improved his temper. They had, however, seen the room he was now heading towards, the shadows hiding him from all eyes, even the little Daechir, who was watching the raucous party avidly, while his younger brother danced on a table. Nurtalëon smiled. Aiwë’s new siblings would be amusing acquaintances, indeed. Reaching the door he had been looking for, Nurtalëon smiled. _Geira, daughter of Narví, sister of Frís_ , was engraved in small runes along the lintel, and he pressed the combination of runes that spelled Nurta to open it without the need for a key. The key for this door was in Lothlórien, of course, stowed in a box in Aiwë’s talan, but the access code had been known to only four people – now one, unless Geira’s memories could be restored – and Nurtalëon knew that he would not be disturbed here.

 

* * *

 

 

“ _Ci vêr_?” Thranduil asked quietly, letting himself into Legolas’s room. His son looked up sharply, from where he had been studying the wall, but did not verbalise a reply. Thranduil simply nodded. Tracing the patterns of flowers with a finger, the Elvenking suddenly laughed. Legolas startled.

“Wha?” he mumbled, slightly worried that his Adar had finally cracked.

“Sometimes, I regret raising you as a Silvan rather than a Doriathen, ionneg,” Thranduil chuckled. “Lothig left a message in the flowers.”

“What does it say?” Legolas asked, intrigued despite the slight jab at his illiteracy. He had never thought it a failing on his part, after all.

“I couldn’t tell you. I recognise the letters, but I believe she wrote it in Quenya, as it makes little sense to me. Only the name ‘ _Lothig’_ is written in the Sindarin mode,” he touched a constellation of flowers,

“This spells out Lothig. My Adar wrote like this, though my Naneth wrote with the letters of the Noldor.” He explained. “You could ask Lord Esgalwathon to translate it for you, _ionneg_ ; he’d be able to read Quenya. Or Rhonith, when she wakes."

Legolas stared at the walls, though he did not recognise the small flower clusters as words. He laughed.

“She really was clever, my Lothig.”

“Yes, she was, _ionneg_ … she was.” Thranduil said quietly, before walking through the door to his own room. Now that he had seen the flowers, he recognised letters made from the leaves that decorated his own walls, but they did not make any more sense to him than the flowers had.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo wanted to repay Dori’s kindness somehow, he thought, as he got ready for bed. His new clothes were a very visible reminder of his status within the Mountain. He immediately set his mind to somehow procuring the ingredients for the apple tart he had served on that unforgettable night in Bag End, and which Dori had praised loudly. The cinnamon – a fairly rare spice in the Shire, but seemingly easy to obtain in the Iron Hills – would not be a problem, and he could probably buy decent apples from Laketown… with his head full of baking plans, Bilbo went to sleep, resting far easier than he had since they left Beorn’s. In his dreams that night, he once more watched the Company as they played keep-away with his dishes; something he had realised only at the Feast was a common party game. Watching dishes and cutlery flying through the air had been scary enough when it was only through his small smial, but seeing the large Feasting Hall of Thrór – lit up with a multitude of lamps and torches and seating at least a few hundred Men, Dwarrow and Elves – erupt in a cacophony of song and dance with crockery flying this way and that, was a spectacle he did not think he would ever see again. What had surprised him the most was the enthusiastic way the remaining Elves had joined their Dwarrow companions in tossing their plates, and he had been even more astonished to realise that – just like at Bag End – not a single item had been dropped or broken.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Shortly after Nurtalëon had left, another Song floated down to the Stones, hours after the first one; the one Bofur had created back in the Woolly Bear so long ago, but modified, now that its promise had been kept.

 

_We drink to our youth, and to days come and gone._  
_For the age of oppression is now all but done._  
_We drove out the Dragon from this land that we own._  
_With our blood and our steel we did take back our home._  
_All hail to Thorin! You are the High King!_  
_In your great honour we drink and we sing._  
_We're the children of Durin, and we fight all our lives._  
_And when Itdendûm beckons, every one of us dies!_  
_But this land is ours and we've seen it wiped clean._  
_Of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams **[247]**_

 

 

Cradled in the Stone, Geira smiled.

**  
**

 

 

 <h6>notes:</h6>

[244] I give you greetings, Thorin, King of the Longbeards. A star shines on the hour of our meeting.

[245] I give you greetings, Thranduil, King of the Wood-elves. Welcome!

[246] Tiny-wolf, nickname

[247] Adapted version of ”The Age of Oppression” from Elder Scrolls: Skyrim © Bethesda Softworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can anyone read the Tengwar, I wonder? Otherwise there'll be a translation at some point. As a hint, it's written in Quenya, in the Quenya mode, which means Tehtar(vocal sounds) are placed above the preceeding letter. I am by no means fluent in Quenya grammar, so if you find a mistake, do tell XD


	40. Thinking and Talking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Morning after.  
> Many things are contemplated, and Dori confronts a stranger. Balin and Dáin are worried.

The morning after the Victory Feast was relatively quiet; not only had the Desolation been covered by a few inches of snow overnight, but many had indulged a bit heavily the night before and were feeling the effects. Those who had been tempted to challenge the remaining Elves to drinking contests – a time honoured tradition at any Dwarven celebration – were feeling especially hungover and in need of silence. No official work had been planned; both Balin and Dáin were fully aware of the general state of their kin after a night of feasting – whether trying to drown their sorrows or celebrating being alive, heavy drinking was guaranteed. Most of the late-night revellers took the opportunity for quiet healing, even if they did not have self-inflicted hangovers. The exception to this general air of lassitude was people like Bombur and Maeassel, who were up before dawn to get started on the necessary kitchen duties. Even hungover Dwarrow wanted breakfast, though the Elves seemed entirely unaffected by the amount of alcohol they had helped consume, which caused quite a few of the Dwarrow to send them black looks from their own reddened eyes. Nori, too, was up early, none the worse for wear. He had slinked off into the shadows when Dori went to put the drunken Ori to bed, spending the rest of his evening observing the comings and goings of the party.

 

* * *

 

Dori had dozed in her armchair most of the night, but apart from some incoherent mumbling, Ori had not suffered ill effects from his inebriation the night before – aside from a terrible hangover, which Dori felt he quite deserved. She had brewed a pot of tea, though Ori did not feel like partaking of the ginger and peppermint brew, preferring to sleep in. Dori spent her morning completing another shirt and jacket for Bilbo – lucky that Hobbits were only a little shorter than most Dwarrow; she had found some easily modifiable pieces that would fit the slimmer shoulders of the Hobbit among the clothes left behind by Prince Frerin who had shared Kíli’s slender build. As she worked, her thoughts circled the design she wanted to make for Thorin’s coronation robes; her quick and nimble fingers barely needed guidance to take in a few seams so Dori simply let her thoughts wander.

 

* * *

 

The King had not indulged in the drink provided by Dáin, feeling too weary to return to the party after his conversation with Thranduil. As he sat in the communal hall they used for mealtimes, Thorin had the opportunity to study those around him undisturbed; the mighty scowl on his face prevented anyone from interrupting his brooding. It was already apparent that though his heir would bear the scar of Azog’s wound, it would do little to detract from his features, Thorin thought, watching his nephew charm the serving girl into giving him an extra spoonful of honey with his easy smile. In fact, Fíli seemed to think it gave him a bit of a rakish appearance, and Thorin had to agree that combined with the twinkle in his eye and his jaunty smile, the scar did add a certain roguish air to his Heir. Kíli, of course, had wasted no time in making his own Ironfoot the Second joke, echoing Dáin’s words, which had made even Dwalin smile. Thorin’s heart fell a little when his thoughts landed on his estranged One. Dwalin was pulling away from him, the bear retreating to lick his wounds, and it broke Thorin’s heart not to know how he could fix what he had torn asunder in his madness. He almost wished that Dwalin would subject him to the long rant he knew he had more than deserved, but the big warrior seemed uncertain, as though he doubted the strength of Thorin’s love. With a ferocious growl at his own thoughts, Thorin turned back to the trial of eating his breakfast with only one hand. He would need to get better at eating things that weren’t liquid, he thought, with a curse upon Azog’s name. The jagged blade that had cut into his arm – missing the artery beneath his clavicle had been nothing less than a miracle, he’d been told – had severed the tendons and nerves that would have let him control any remaining stump. Not that he had any stump to speak of, whatever the elf had done to heal him had severed the arm neatly, and made it look as though he had been born without the limb altogether. The skin was scarred, but less than he had expected when he finally dared look in the silver mirror he had recovered from his parents’ suite. It meant, however, that there was very little reason to craft a prosthetic arm, which was why he had only considered it briefly before deciding that his vanity would just have to suffer until he learned to live with only one arm. The thought made him look at Kíli, who was pushing his porridge around his bowl without actually eating any of it; a disconcerting sight as Kíli had always had a voracious appetite, even as a dwarfling.

 

* * *

 

Kíli did not feel much like himself. It was as though his head had been overstuffed with thoughts he could not find the energy to make sense of. He didn’t feel much from his stump, though he allowed his Uncle and Fíli to think that the missing limb was the reason he was preoccupied. In truth, his mind kept circling that moment on the battlefield, when he had been certain he was staring death in the face. He had watched, as though Bolg was moving through syrup rather than air, the wicked blade coming towards him…until Ori bellowed his war cry and made the world keep turning. He wished he could remember what exactly the Scribe had yelled; feeling that it was immensely important, but he had no luck. He also didn’t know precisely how to ask Ori. Feeling unaccustomedly shy, Kíli simply ruminated on his own faulty memory of that day.

 

* * *

 

 

“This is Deep Lore, Legolas,” King Thorin had said, on the morning he had been shown to the most sacred part of the Lonely Mountain. “It is the Maker’s precious Gift, and we do not usually speak of it to outsiders. I charge you with keeping sacred the oaths of secrecy that bind all who learn of these things.” His voice had had a certain ring to it, and Legolas knew that – even if Aulë was not his Maker – he would never break his word and speak of the Stones to anyone else. How could he even begin to explain the experience?  
The stones, which seemed to hold echoes of Bifur’s song even hours after the Dwarf had left, imbued Legolas’ spirit with a sense of unease on his brief visits. He never stayed long, the unsettling sensation in his body making him flee quicker than he’d like. Legolas had at first cursed himself for a coward, but the Stones simply did not agree with him. He had not passed out again, but he had been close a few times. The Song, vibrating along his bones like the feeling that hangs in the air after a great gong has been struck, was difficult to describe. He knew that the physical sensation accompanied a sort of sound, but his mind could not interpret it as anything but a sense of discomfort. His words fell utterly short, and the waiting for Rhonith to re-emerge from the Stone was slowly draining whatever hope he had had left. Thranduil visited too, but he was kept busy by long discussions with Balin, Bard, and Thorin – distracting him from worrying all the time. He spared a though to wonder at the whereabouts of the dark-haired elf Nurtalëon, who seemed to have vanished after the peculiar blood ritual he had done on the morning of the Victory Feast, but he was silently pleased by the disconcerting Noldo’s absence. He had realised that Nurtalëon must be the one usually called ‘my companion’ in most of Rhonith’s tales, and the thought that she had never mentioned his name or his position in her life was unsettling.

Ori had – after a solemn oath that he would tell no one else – translated the words Nurtalëon had spoken to the Stones. The Rite – as Ori explained – called upon the initiate’s emotions to work as a bridge between them and the Stone Mother, whose reply had been heard only by the Cantor, but Legolas had noticed that Nurtalëon had called on _love_ for the Rite to work. Lost in his ponderings, he had escaped – he wasn’t needed in the council chambers, really – and found himself on the battlements next to Kíli, who greeted him with a half-hearted wave. The Dwarf continued huffing sullenly on his pipe as they stared across the white landscape. The silence of the world covered in snow filled Legolas’s bones, and the undisturbed white in front of him had a strange calming effect that was not spoiled by Kíli’s presence.

 

* * *

 

 

_The Song was everywhere. Like the caress of a mother’s voice it wove itself around her. When she slept, it suffused her dreams, when she was awake, it rang in her ears. The Elf had come again, he, too, was singing, even if it was not the same as the Song. She did not understand his words, but the melody was soothing, like a memory she had almost forgotten and could not recall. She was not afraid that they would harm her, anymore, though she still shied away from those who tried to touch her. The Elf had tried to teach her his name, in his words – she assumed the sounds created words, and though she did not understand the sibilant phrases, they were quite soothing. She wondered where the Mistress had gone, but when she tried to ask questions, feeling her tongue wrap around familiar syllables, the Elf would look so sad. She did not want him to be sad. His blue eyes and pale hair became a familiar sight in her new cave. She had not tried to leave, had not wanted to know that one prison had been exchanged for another, did not want to give them any excuse to teach her new rules with pain and blood, like the Mistress had done. She knew there were others around; others like the pale one. She had seen the red one, but the colour of its hair was so like the Mistress’s scales that when it appeared in the corner of her vision one day, she screamed in fright. She had tried to apologise to it, when she realised it was not the Mistress – at least, it appeared it was not, though she could not be sure the Mistress had not simply achieved a new form – but it had run away and not come back. Another who came regularly was not an Elf, even though his hair was also white; he was even shorter than her. She liked the little one – though he came only once in a while, mostly when the Elf wasn’t there. He did not enter her new home –prison? – but simply sat in the doorway, sometimes singing something she knew with absolute certainty was a lullaby her mother had sung. It confused her, knowing the song, when she was not certain she had ever had a mother, but she did not know how to ask him about it. Sometimes, the lullaby would be in the Song, she would catch snatches of it, in a different voice, and sometimes she even though she recognised some of the voices. The Elf looked tired, and sad, when he stopped singing. She no longer wanted to scream to drown out the Song around her, so she kept silent, just studying the Elf. She stayed where she was, her back against the wall; as far away from any visitors as possible, but she did not scream. The Elf bared his teeth. She whimpered; trying to stop herself, but failing. It did not matter; the Elf heard her and his face changed again. His blue eyes stared at her, but he did not move closer, which she appreciated. She might not be able to defend herself – even the shiny dagger the Mistress had given her for cutting up the meat she sometimes brought had been taken from her – but she would not let them hurt her. The Elf said something, sounding weary, and then he left slowly. She could hear his voice – speaking with another, further down the corridor – but his words had no meaning._

_Much later, the smaller one came to sit in the doorway. He was eating something, something that smelled good. They had been feeding her, bread mostly, and she missed eating meat. She stared. The little one said something in his rumbly words, but around her the Song changed. In it, there were words, words that she understood, words that meant food. She frowned, which made the little one look at her with sadness in his aged blue eyes._

_Teetering on the brink, she wanted to reach for the bowl, even as she wanted to run away and hide and curl up small so no one would find her._

_The little one with the funny hair spoke again._

_Her stomach growled with the scent of whatever was in the bowl._

_A decision was made._

_“ **Ablâg-dê? **[248]**** ”_

 

“Cousin Raudigarr looks so old!” Geira exclaimed, though neither occupant of the memory she was witnessing heard her. She had last seen him a few years before Annatar kidnapped her; at the family presentation of his son, who bore the mark of Durin the Deathless. She remembered ‘Raudi’ as a boisterous and brash young Dwarf, always game for mischief when she visited his Adad’s Kingdom. The greybeard in front of her now bore only faint traces of the Dwarf he had been, the sadness in his eyes pronounced.

“That was the first time I spoke something other than the tongue of Mordor,” Rhonith replied quietly beside her. “I did not know him, then, and King Raudigarr died shortly after this.” She fell silent, as they watched the old Dwarf push the bowl of fragrant broth towards the half-starved girl pressed against the wall. “It took courage to cross that floor. I did not know, but Raudigarr could not walk; his son would carry him down to the Stones… that’s why he always sat in the doorway.” The creature best known as Little Morsel darted towards the bowl, picking it up and scurrying back to her side of the cavern immediately. She ate quickly and messily, having long-since learned that food might be taken away at any second. In the doorway, the old Dwarf cried her name softly, but the gaunt figure did not respond. Within minutes, the bowl was empty; she had even licked up the last few droplets. Returning to sitting with her back against the wall, she studied the gnarled Dwarf in the doorway. The King of Khazad-dûm had fallen silent, though tears continued to trail into his beard.

“He loved us – me – us?” Geira whispered, trailing her hand down his cheek as though she could wipe the tears away.

“His report for Amad was the hardest, Uncle Durin claimed. Cousin Ragnarr could tell her only that the search for me was ongoing, but Raudigarr had to tell her that I was found, while I remained lost.”

“Report?” Geira asked, prompting Rhonith to chuckle.

“The Line of Durin – the King’s Line at least – considered it their sacred duty to find Narví in Itdendûm and tell her how I fared. The tradition died out with Thráin I… after Thorin had resettled in Ered Mithrim, I… I had to leave him for some time. I never met Thráin again, after he became an adult.”

“Can I choose now?” Geira asked, as the two shades returned to the in-between-world of the Stones.

They watched as a younger Raudigarr ran around the carved stone pillars of the Great Hall – agilely evading capture by his cousin. In the background, Nurtalëon watched, while Celebrimbor soaked up the sound of their laughter in between conversing with King Ragnarr.

 

* * *

 

 

Dáin considered himself a sensitive Dwarf, for all that he put on a loud and brash persona. He had been greatly worried by the report from the Raven that had delivered Thorin’s initial request for aid to hold the Lonely Mountain, and his worry had scarcely lessened since. Arriving at the Gates, he had been met with great suspicion, if not outright hostility – it was cause to worry, several of his most trusted generals had whispered, when the _Elves_ you had a long-standing feud with were more welcoming than your own kin. Initially, he had wanted to dismiss the concerns of the Elf-cousin, though when he had finally been allowed to pass through the Elven ranks, he had thought that her description was a staggering understatement of how badly things were going with Thorin. He had always looked up to his cousin; Thorin’s courage had been lauded far and wide after the first battle with Smaug, and his fame had only grown after the horrid War against the Orcs and the pyrrhic victory at Azanulbizar. The Dwarf he had faced that morning bore only a token resemblance to his strong cousin. Gone was the quiet strength of a Dwarf who knows himself and his space in the world; replaced by madness and tyranny! As he looked at Thorin’s broody countenance now, however, across a table scattered with lists and papers, Dáin still did not truly recognise his cousin. The madness was gone, yes, but Thorin seemed diminished, as though a fire had been doused in his heart. He knew that cousin Balin had seen it too; just who was this meek Dwarf that had taken the place of their kinsman and good friend? Dáin was still greatly worried. Catching Balin’s eyes was no great difficulty; Thorin rarely raised his head from contemplating the lists in front of him, and a quick flashing of signs ensured that his cousin would find him later. It was time for some answers.

 

* * *

 

  
In the Healing Wards of her home, Lívhild had a reputation for being a no nonsense dwarrowdam, which was why so many of the wounded who hailed from the Iron Hills found it so amusing to watch the healer giggle like a beardless youth when the Lord Cantor of Erebor performed his duties in the Healing Wards. Bifur, who was used to healers paying him attention simply because of the peculiarity that was living with a weapon embedded in his skull, took no real notice of the way Lívhild would have many errands to run that made her cross his path every time he came through Óin’s domain. He mostly paid attention to his faithful shadow Flóki, teaching the young Singer by example as their voices rose in harmonious Song.

Bofur, on the other hand, who had been unlucky enough to trip over a piece of rubble – or so he claimed – and broken his leg, did notice. He also noticed the way young Flóki, who was only a little older than Ori, would wink at him every time he noticed Bofur noticing. It was promising, the miner-cum-toymaker thought, and perhaps he would soon have a fellow match-maker to scheme with. He had tried to recruit Nori, but the star-haired Dwarf was content with running the pools with Glóin, and spent most of his time getting to know all the shady corners of Erebor he would need to be familiar with in his role as Thorin’s Black Owl.

 

* * *

 

 

When she made it to the Dwelling of Souls, it was deserted but for Bifur, who just nodded distractedly at her before he returned his focus to the Song. She spent another ten minutes, silently leaning against the stone, waiting until the Cantor finished his daily duty. With another nod and a gentle smile, Bifur left.

“I know you’re here, Master Elf,” Dori said quietly, facing the far wall behind Geira’s stone casing.

“You are more observant than your kin, Mistress,” with a sardonic smile, Nurtalëon melted from the shadows and bowed to her. “How may I be of service, Sister-of-Aiwë?”

“…” Dori gaped. “How do you know I’m a dam? Not even the Company speaks to me as if I am female, I wear no indications of my sex and yet you knew when you met me. How?” Nurtalëon frowned thoughtfully.

“Your hair.” He said. “It is impossible for you to be male, Mistress – Dori, was it? – when your hair marks you so clearly a descendant of Zantunalkhul.”

“Who was she?” Dori touched her mithril locks self-consciously.

“Zantunalkhul was the name of the wife of Durin the first, the greatest beauty the Hadhodrim have ever seen. Her hair was said to be spun from gold and mithril and only daughters of her line have her mithril locks. I would venture a guess that you are a matrilineal descendant of Sóldís Goldenlocke, you resemble her greatly.” _That’s what Geira meant by calling me auntie!_ Dori thought, pleased to have an answer to that riddle. Nurtalëon continued sagely. “Sóldís was Lady Narví’s aunt, younger sister of her mother, Ljufa the Mithril Fair. Ljufa married Domarr, the King of Khazad-dûm, and gave birth to three children, Durin, who became King after his father, Silfrís, who died at the age of 13, and Narví. Sóldís married Kiúli, a wealthy nobleman and advisor to the King. She had one child, a daughter called Ragna Mithril-Bright, who had great skill at finding mithril veins and became a very wealthy Lady. I admit that we have not followed the line closely over the centuries, but the hair is distinctive. It is passed only from mother to daughter, so if your brothers have daughters, they will not inherit it, though yours will. The oldest always gets the mithril, though a second daughter will also give her oldest daughter mithril hair.” Nurtalëon’s voice had grown slower, lost in thought, but Dori was rapt. Through her Adad, they were 8 th generation descendants of a bastard son of Thorin I, but she had never known much about Arnóra’s line. It was heady to consider that from her own feet stretched back an unbroken line of mothers and daughters all the way to Durin I.

 

* * *

 

 

Kíli sat, staring at the gently falling snow for a long time. He did not notice the Elf leaving, nor did he realise when Legolas returned, carrying his own warg-fur cloak. The heat it brought, when Legolas had wrapped it around him, however, was welcome; the ramparts were a cold place to sit.

“I will return in one hour to bring you to the evening meal, friend Kíli,” Legolas murmured as he left. Kíli just nodded. His thoughts were far away.

Walking back into the Mountain, Legolas came across Fíli, who looked decidedly worried.

“Your brother is on the ramparts, Fíli.” The Elven prince said quietly. “He seems to be thinking deeply. I told him I would fetch him in one hour for evening meal.”

“Is he alright?” Fíli frowned. It wasn’t _unlike_ Kíli to seek solitude when he thought through a problem, but usually he would have at least informed his older brother that he didn’t want company.

“I cannot say,” Legolas admitted. “I lent him my cloak, you mortals get chilled so easily, but I went outside looking for peace… I did not ask and he did not speak to me.”

“The Stones are something else,” Fíli nodded, glancing worriedly at the stairs leading to the ramparts. He almost couldn’t believe that it was only four days since they had stood up there and watched a legend come alive.

“They are terrible,” Legolas said, with feeling. “I feel them in my bones, in my flesh, in my head, like I was a great bell and someone struck me.” Fíli grinned.

“I suppose that what happens when outsiders demand to know the secrets of the Deep,” he retorted glibly. “To us... they echo,” trying to explain what standing down there was like was almost impossible. “Like we are standing in a place where the veil of time is thin and you can hear snatches of those who have come before. The Stones hold our ancestors’ joy and sorrow, their songs and laments.” He smiled. “It is said that if you listen hard enough, you can even hear the Maker’s voice in the Stones. That might just be superstition, though. The Stone does not grow in Ered Luin, so what I know is mostly hearsay and legends. Ori looked up some of the stories in the Library, however, if you want a better explanation.”

 

* * *

 

 

Nori scowled, but his face quickly smoothed into a mask of polite interest as he listened to one of his contacts explain the political situation in the Iron Hills. None of the people he had talked to over the past few days – even going so far as to pump unsuspecting drunkards at the Victory Feast – had had anything useful to tell him. Surreptitiously fingering one of the small blades that lived in his vambraces, Nori nodded at the appropriate points of Groma’s story. If only one of Dáin’s own agents had been around, so he could have obtained at least semi-useful intel about the Dwarrow who would soon be pouring into the Mountain from the Iron Hills. Not that there were a lot of them. As far as he knew, Dáin did not have a very extensive web of spies, like Nori himself had managed to create in Ered Luin ever since he had accepted the Feather. His task was protecting the main Line of Durin, and though he was relatively knowledgeable about all enemies to the Crown, Dáin was a minor character in his eyes and he only kept a peripheral eye on the Iron Hills. With a sigh, he let Groma head off to help in the kitchens.

 

* * *

 

 

 _You have deep thoughts, ranakâl **[249]**…who are you? How does your voice reach us?_ Geira’s voice seemed hesitant and slightly confused, but Dwalin heard her clearly.

“ **’Ala Amrab-rirakîn… ni Urd’ek, Geira. Ma sazilikiya? Astî ‘ukham nekhsi yadi. Imnê Dwalin Fundinul, irakdashatzi**[250] **.** ” Dwalin said with a slight sigh. He did not consider it odd that she had spoken in Khuzdul; they were inside a Dwarf Mountain. If not for the current number of strangers walking the halls, Khuzdul would be the language of choice.  

 _I like you, ranakâl._ In the Song around him, Geira laughed, like she had when they had first met her outside the Goblin caves. Dwalin couldn’t help but smile, slightly wistful. In those days at Beorn’s house, which now seemed so far away, he had been a far happier Dwarf. He had been angry at Thorin for being so reckless, but he had not been suffering under this much doubt. _I am here, ranakâl. I can hear so many Voices in the Stones here…I am here…_ her voice seemed to change, becoming smoother and more familiar. Dwalin smiled. Bifur had been right. _Why are you here, Dwalin of my blood? I can feel you thinking, such deep unhappy thoughts seeping into the Stones from you. Your voice is tired, growly bear._

“I have much to think of.” Dwalin snapped, the nickname hurting more than he’d like to admit, and got up to leave. Her voice in the song followed him up the steps, however. _Perhaps. Perhaps the answer is closer than you see._

* * *

 

 

In the shadows, Nurtalëon breathed a sigh of relief. He did not know what Dwalin had said; the few lines of Khuzdul he had learned by rote pertained to the rituals he had undergone to become Mashammerûn, but that had been a compromise. Durin had wanted him to learn more, but Lady Narví had convinced her brother that the resultant outcry would not be worth it. He had never asked Aiwë to translate things Dwarrow around him said, often guessing their meaning through observation, which had given him a reputation for knowing the language in secret. He did not need to know what the Shumrozbid had said, however, the fact that she was able to communicate meant that he had reason to hope she could be restored. He patted the oblong stone fondly. Wishing that he could send a message to Celebrimbor, Nurtalëon made his way to the kitchens, obtained a bowl of stew for his evening meal, and returned to his quiet watch.

 

* * *

 

 

“Tell me everything.” Dáin said, stuffing his pipe and lighting it quietly. He had joined Balin in the house Fundin had once owned, and was now watching his cousin intently. Balin sighed, but pulled out his own pipe.

“Well, cousin, I suppose I’ll start with the night we met Master Baggins…” the old diplomat began. Hours later, he had reached the end, sorrow colouring his voice as he described the death that met them once they began to explore the vast halls of their long-lost home. Balin had to force the words past the lump in his throat when he described Thorin’s rapid descent into madness, not even realising that his brother had returned to their house until Dwalin’s large palm squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. The old advisor felt terrible that he was the one in need of comfort, rather than Dwalin, but he accepted it gratefully. Dwalin stole his brother’s pipe, puffing life back into the tobacco and picking up the story at the point where he had gone alone to the Throne Room to beg the Mad King to join the battle being fought on their doorstep.

“I never thought to see such hatred in his eyes,” Dwalin said softly, the pipe hanging forgotten from limp fingers as he stared into the fire. “Not even Thranduil’s abandonment of our kin put such a look in his eyes, and before this journey, I would have said the Elvenking and Azog were the ones Thorin hated most.” Neither his brother nor cousin knew what to say after that statement. It was all well and good to claim Thorin’s behaviour was the result of madness, it was quite another to claim Thorin was blameless because of it. Wishing them a quiet goodnight, Dwalin handed back the pipe and made his way to bed.

“He barely sleeps, skips most meals, and avoids Thorin like the plague,” Balin sighed. “I don’t know how they will get past this.”

“I’m guessing Thorin feels he no longer deserves his One,” Dáin rumbled. Balin chuckled mirthlessly, but did not argue; that was his interpretation too. “He’s always been far too fond of castigating himself. Which means WE will have to do something about this,” Dáin made an expansive hand motion, which might mean the situation of Dwalin and Thorin or might encompass the entirety of Erebor.

“I’m glad you’re here, cousin,” was Balin’s only reply. They spoke no more that evening.

 

 

 

 

###### notes:

[248] Food-to-me?

[249] Thinker/considerer

[250] This is The Place of Soul-Secret…in Erebor. You do not remember? Younger you came here. My name is Dwalin, son of Fundin, your nephew.


	41. Letters and Legends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glóin is anxious, Legolas is a good friend, and Dori is amused by her siblings. Kili learns something new and Nori starts plotting.

The answer to Thorin’s first message to Ered Luin came through the gentle snowfall around midmorning of November 29, winging its way into Erebor and seeking out – with the uncanny precision of the **bahazanâsh ‘Urdul** – Thorin, who was eating breakfast in the communal hall. With him sat the Company, with the notable absence of Dwalin, but when Thorin called for silence, they all quieted.

“Do you bear a message, Ribril?” he asked. Around him, silence spread like rings across a pond. Ribril croaked once, before she spoke her message.

“Nadad, good news indeed. Give my love to all of you. Preparations will start at once. Send back a raven and I will tell you when the first caravans leave. You’d better not be married before I get there!” came Dís’ clear voice from the Raven’s beak. No one spoke. Thorin’s grimace at his sister’s parting comment went uncommented, but not unnoticed. The bird opened its mouth once more, hopping along the table until it reached Glóin. It tilted its head, studying him with one beady black eye then bowed. “Will you tell my husband, Glóin Grórul that he will be a father once again before he can make it home, but that I expect him to arrive with all due haste to help me move our family.” Vár’s dry tone was copied as perfectly as Dís’ but her message caused pandemonium to erupt. Glóin fainted dead away, while his brother had to be told the message again, sure that he had misheard Vár’s words with his shiny new hearing trumpet. When he realised that he had heard Ribril correctly, however, he joined the impromptu party that had sprung up along the Company’s table. With another loud caw, Ribril bowed once more and flew off, snatching most of Glóin’s bacon on her way.

 

Eventually, they managed to rouse Glóin, though he went very pale when he was told of the raven’s message and had to be given a cup of medicinal whiskey. Óin, over his minor spell of disbelief, joined his brother in worry. He, too, remembered Vár’s first experience in the birthing bed, and there was little he could do to console his younger brother and dispel the merchant’s fears.

 

* * *

 

 

Nurtalëon was somewhat impressed with the stubbornness of the young Prince of Mirkwood. Every time he showed up in the Dwelling of Soul Stones, he grit his teeth against the pain of it for longer than his previous visits. Having only known Legolas through Aiwë’s stories, Nurtalëon was slightly surprised at how little she had exaggerated his personality. The ellon was at least as tenacious as his Adar, and more stubborn than his Naneth, which was not all that surprising if he thought about it, having met the Queen many times during happier years. Even if Nínimeth had not had a hand in raising the ellon herself, he could see traces of her in her son – no matter that Legolas bore almost solely the features of the Sindarin of Doriath. He kept himself hidden from those infrequent visitors, though he was fairly certain Thranduil had realised where he hid when the Elvenking showed up shortly before dawn. He had not stayed long, but he had nodded in the direction of Nurtalëon’s hiding spot as he left. The Prince, however, was as blind as the Dwarrow – a couple other caskets now occupied the space on either side of Aiwë’s, home to two Dwarrow from the Iron Hills who had caught serious infections and were put here as their healer’s last resort.

* * *

 

 

The vast Library had become Ori’s refuge. The dusty air was left mostly undisturbed by anyone else’s breathing, and as long as he remembered to show up for the evening and morning meals, Dori let him walk among the shelves to his heart’s content. He wondered if he had said something on the night of the Victory Feast, but he did not remember more than snippets of the evening, so he couldn’t be sure. The look she had given him in the morning, however, had been an odd mix of sorrow and quiet joy he had never before seen on her face. He had immediately discarded the thought that Nori might have told her something; his brother had a code, and ratting out people was quite high on the list of things Nori tried not to do.

 

* * *

 

 

Dori chuckled in her beard as she watched Nori play pretend among the Iron Hills soldiers. Those who had seen him fight – if they had taken notice of one fighter among the chaos – would soon dismiss their memories as battle-warped recollections; there was no way ‘Lord Nori’ was able to fight like that, all knives and snarling teeth. Dori knew better, of course, and it did not take her long to guess the motivation for Nori’s peculiar behaviour. They would have to inform those of the Company who did not know the identity of the Black Owl, obviously, which included Ori, but she knew her brother, and he was always five steps ahead in his mind. If he felt the need to create an alias, Dori trusted that it was necessary. This one was obviously a dandy – she recognised some of the mannerisms as her own, wildly exaggerated – sparking her own wicked streak. If Nori wanted to poke fun at her this way, let him, but Dori would have her subtle revenge. Dressing him in fine clothes and watching him parade around as though the finery didn’t grate against his every sensibility… Smugly, Dori pilfered some more of the fabric stock that had been stored so well that it was almost as if woven a few years ago, and began to plot. Lace neck ruffles, of course, trailing sleeves – with hidden pockets for small blades, of course – lots of gilded embroidery. She wondered if she could convince Prince Kíli to help her make a pair of elaborately tooled boots – it would be a good test of his skill before she asked him to help her create Thorin’s coronation garb. In truth, they _all_ needed new boots and sundry other clothes, Master Baggins’ was simply the most pressing case.

 

* * *

 

 

After a few hours of fretting, Glóin walked heavily to Thorin’s study. When he followed the terse order to enter, however, it was not Thorin’s grumpiness – which he had expected – he was met with, but the sight of another Raven waiting patiently on his cousin’s desk.

“I am writing to Dís. The message is too long for a Raven to remember, but Skrikja swears that he can carry a letter to Ered Luin. I am asking her to ensure that Bombur’s family are among the first to arrive in Erebor,” Thorin explained, as the raven repeated his call to ‘Enter’. “If Vár got pregnant shortly before we left, she will have just given birth when the message arrives. It is risky to travel with a pebble that small, but if you wish it, I will ask Dís to bring your family too.”

“I don’t know… Vár is capable, yes, but she will need help packing and such…” Glóin fretted. A knock sounded on the door. Skrikja – pleased with his new game – once more called for the person to enter. When the door opened, it admitted the Prince of Mirkwood, however, rather than one of the Dwarrow.

“Fair afternoon, King Thorin, Lord Glóin,” Legolas said, nodding to each Dwarrow.

“What can we do for you, Prince Legolas?” Thorin asked. The Elven prince shook his head.

“It is what I can do for you, King Thorin. I have been informed that you are to be congratulated,” he said warmly to Glóin, who nodded dumbly. “The birth of a pebble is a joyous occasion, to be celebrated by all who hear the news,” he smiled. “I have come to offer Lord Glóin passage through Mirkwood, if he wishes to return to his wife in her hour of need. Horthonion is our fastest rider, and his mount has carried Dwarrow before. He will see you swiftly to my Father’s Halls, and from there you can ride one of our elks with a guard escort all the way to the Misty Mountains. Horthonion has made the trip from Erebor to our Halls in less than one _lefnar_. If you pass through the Desolation, it is not that far, only about 35 miles. Then you can follow the Forest River path to the Halls, which we walked to get to Laketown. Getting through Mirkwood on an experienced elk with a proper guide will take you two _lefneir_ – ten days – at most and you can cross the Anduin where it is joined by the Rimdath. From there you can head south-west to the foothills of the Misty Mountains, where you will find the path to Imladris. Getting through the Mountains will be slower, and you will have to send the elk back and walk on foot, but if you left quickly, you could be in Imladris before the moon has completed a full turn,” Legolas finished. “That would put you in Imladris around Midwinter, I think, and from there, you could charter a horse on the East Road to get to Ered Luin. I am not familiar with that journey, but Rhonith never took long to get to Mithlond and back, so I guess it is not arduous, if you are not being chased by an Orc bent on your destruction,” the Prince added with a wry smile. The two Dwarrow could only gape.

“That is a generous offer, Prince Legolas,” Glóin said hoarsely. He could be in Ered Luin in less than three moons, if he could get fresh mounts along the East Road. The Elf bowed in recognition.

“Arastor and Tuilinthel will see you from our Halls to Imladris, Master Glóin, on my command. Do you wish to leave?” That this plan would neatly solve the problem of where to put the twins now that their unit had been permanently broken, he did not mention. Even if they travelled all the way to Imladris and back, they would return when the rosters were arranged for the next six-year period, and hopefully he would have found replacements for Dínelloth and Thalawen by then.

Thorin smiled at his cousin’s questioning gaze. “I’m sure Dáin has more than one accountant I could borrow Glóin. Your family takes priority here. Give my very best regards to Vár, and if you meet my sister on the road, give her a hug from all of us. Find Bombur, and get him to pack you some food, and then let this Elf get you to Mirkwood with all haste.” He said, knowing that he would sorely miss his cousin’s clever head with numbers, but also knowing that he would have done the same if it had been Dís in Vár’s position. He had been there for the birth of both his nephews, and he felt saddened that Glóin would miss the arrival of his new child. They had all known that Bombur would, and they had held a small welcoming ceremony one evening in Rivendell, on the day Óin had predicted the pebble would be born. Even with Legolas’ more than generous offer of aid, Thorin knew that Glóin would arrive at least two moons after the birth.

“Horthonion is very swift. He is the one who fetched Lothig’s- Frís’ parents from Erebor when we found her,” Legolas said. Thorin startled slightly. Dwalin had told him the story of Frís’ Elven adventure as a small pebble, but he had not thought that he would meet the one who had informed his grandparents of her fate. Sometimes, the long lives of the Eldar still took him by surprise. “He will take you safely to Adar’s Halls.”

“Thank you, Prince Legolas,” Thorin said, while Glóin bowed once at the Elf, before practically running from the room. “You have done my cousin a great service this day; it will not be forgotten.” With a nod and something Thorin chose to take as a smile, Legolas bade him farewell, setting off through the perplexing hallways he was learning to navigate, in search of his fastest messenger-rider.

* * *

 

Being a master thief was the perfect cover for a spymaster, if Nori said so himself, even if both his jobs took him away from his family more than he liked and caused Dori to fret over him. As he wandered the corridors of Erebor, Nori considered how he would change his modus operandi. The Shadowdancer would move here, of course, but Nori would need to consider his official position carefully. One of the Lords Companion could not simply disappear, of course. Those thoughts brought up the look on Dori’s face when he had returned to tell his family that he was going on the Quest. Nori had known, the minute the door opened, that Dori had believed him dead and gone for at least a year and he had cursed himself for a fool as the groceries dropped from her hands. Dori’s temper – so much like their mother that her tirades always made him feel a fond sting of memory – had run away with her five years before, when he had been kicked out and told not to return. Nori – and he should have known better, he knew, but he’d been angry too – had at first stayed away as he’d been bid, not even sending home the usual tokens and trinkets he had so often picked from market stalls and imagined Dori and Ori’s faces when they unwrapped their presents. He had never sent them stolen goods, and his pride was stung that Dori had believed him capable of it, so he hadn’t bothered, even when he came across amethyst and silver clasps that would be perfect for Dori’s hair, or a new colour ink Ori had never seen. He had returned to Ered Luin intermittently in those five years, but he had been very careful in ensuring that neither of his siblings knew he was around. The guttersnipes he paid to keep an eye on his family were discrete – Nori prided himself on the training he gave his protégées, always reminded of old Radulf’s teachings – so Nori had known that Dori and Ori were doing well for themselves. The look on his sister’s face that day, however, had carved itself into his heart, the way she had trembled as she reached for him, unsure that he was really there, had written itself across his mind in black letters of grief-stricken fear and Nori never wanted to see Dori look like that ever again. His mood blackened, Nori made his way – a shadow among shadows – until he reached the place Dori had told him had been their parents’ house. The building – long gone like so many others that had been smashed by the dragon – held no memories for surface-born Nori, but he had wondered if the rubble hid things that might have survived the destruction. He didn’t expect Smaug to have left any precious metals underneath the rubble, and it was unlikely that anything made of fabric would have survived; this area had been heavily affected by the weather that could enter the broken Front Gates. What he really wanted to find – something his mother had described in perfect detail – was a relief mural carved by their aunt, who had died shortly after Dori was born, and for whom Nori had been named later. Of course, with the walls smashed to pieces, he was unlikely to find more than fragments, but he turned every piece of stone he moved either way. Clearing the uneven blocks of stone would have been easier with Dori’s strength, but this was Nori’s new thinking project, and he had told neither of his siblings where he went when he wasn’t with them. Ori had never met their father, of course, who died before their mother had even realised she was bearing, and Nori had never known that the Dwarf he had looked up to like a surrogate father and teacher _was_ in fact his father, but Dori had been happy here. Even if she was barely old enough to remember the dragon, she had had both her parents, something that had initially made Nori irrationally jealous, for Dori had – if he counted the years under Radulf’s tutelage as time with his Adad – spent far less time with her Adad than Nori inadvertently had managed to get. His task here was a maudlin one, Nori told himself with a scowl, but that did not stop him from hauling away stone in the hopes that there might be something Dori would recognise hidden among the rubble. It would be a fitting apology for the past five years of no presents and no word somehow, to Nori’s mind. He wasn’t as worried about Ori, who had been used to him being gone for long periods of time almost since he was born, but Ori was a very different Dwarf from their sister who had more than a small tendency to worry. Nori’s absence had been forgiven – by his far too naïve little brother – far too quickly for his liking, but Ori had always been like that, simply happy to see him. Dori, however, was a worrier of rank. Nori was not sure she would ever forget that he had let her think him dead, even if he lived to be three hundred. A large part of it – Nori was shrewd enough to read her every face – was the residual guilt Dori carried for their final row which had sparked his long absence. She had thought she had sent him off to die, thinking he was unloved by his only kin, and Nori did not know how to tell her that he had forgiven and forgotten the harsh words they’d hurled at each other less than a year after he left.  
As he worked, he mulled over his list of the current ‘Most Influential Dwarrow from the Iron Hills in Erebor’ and found himself wishing that he could bring a few of his urchins/spies with the speed of a raven from Ered Luin. Being reduced to only his own ears was severely limiting the scope of his operations, and Nori considered whether Thorin would mind terribly if he persuaded a raven to take a message to Lari, his ‘lieutenant’ as far as he had one. Not that the King necessarily needed to know that Nori was sending off communications to some of ‘his’ underlings – pickpockets and grifters and gamblers and other assorted shady persons who owed him favours and the like – but Nori had not become the unofficial ruler of the Ered Luin underworld by skipping steps and contingencies when he made plans. Not that he considered himself the _ruler_ of the criminal element; it was impossible to rule over people whose most common trait was a disdain for established authority. That being said, however, Nori _was_ in the position of being able to sway and influence the plans of his brethren on the other side of the law. No heist was planned, no schemes launched without Nori hearing about it, which was exactly what he wanted. Those he couldn’t convince to alter their plans to something that suited him, the crown, or their people, better, were usually the ones the Guard mysteriously caught. Nori was careful, never letting traces lead back to him meddling and whispering in Dwalin’s ears, and slowly his reputation had grown. When he first hatched the plan for how _he_ would carry out the duties of the Black Owl, Nori had been young, and though he had been aware of his own skill, he had also been far more reckless than sensible. He still didn’t know quite how he had pulled the mad idea off, managing to be both Spymaster and a sort of criminal’s Oracle at the same time, but it seemed to work. It helped, of course, that Radulf had drilled it into his head that his identity as Nori had to be completely separate from his identity as whatever alias he gave himself. That was the real reason for Nori’s elaborate hairstyle; people tended to remember his hair more than his face, which meant that he could walk the streets as Nori, change his braids and emerge as the Shadowdancer without giving himself away. He had already considered the perfect cover story for the persona of ‘Lord Nori, Companion of King Thorin’ which ran along the lines of ‘Oh, yes, that Lord Nori…I heard he came along because his brothers couldn’t leave him home, a bit simple, mind, a bit useless, but altogether a fine fellow’. The thought made him smile. The Company – who had grown accustomed to his real personality during the trip, would have to be warned, of course, so as not to give him away, but that shouldn’t pose a great problem. Nori would show up at official occasions, playing a rich lord with little thought in his head but pretty clothes and good food, perfectly harmless. It was quite a perfect disguise, which he had already begun to affect among the new arrivals. Dori had been an unexpected boon; his sister had spent most of her evening crafting new sets of fine clothes that fit him perfectly. Nori had never quite worked out how Dori always managed to read his schemes, but he had hardly started his new con before a package of clothes suitable for the ploy had appeared.

* * *

 

 

Kíli was depressed. He knew it, and he knew that his brother and Uncle Thorin knew it. Uncle Dwalin knew too, but Kíli could not bear to unload his troubles on any one of them. Instead, he sought solitude. He appeared at meal times, and he knew that Nori probably had a pretty good idea as to where he was at all times, but Kíli wandered the halls of Erebor alone most of the day. That was how he found the Amrab-rirakîn, even if he did not know what it was when he first entered. The Song in that remote part of the Mountain seemed far stronger than that heard elsewhere, but when Geira’s voice came to him through the Stones, Kíli shrieked.

 _Hush, Rayad-dehar. I am speaking through the Singing Stones. You are not going mad._ The warm chuckle at the end of the last sentence made Kíli relax slightly.

“Aunt Geira?” he whispered, confused.

_Kíli, child of Dís.  Of the Line of Durin. Blood of my blood._

“How are you talking to me?” Kíli asked, fearfully looking around the empty room, which held nothing but shimmering Stones of indeterminate colour, the largest of them containing Geira’s body. Lívhild had placed two comatose Iron Hills Dwarrow in the keeping of the Stones earlier that morning. Their egg-shaped stones were not as big as Geira’s, partly because she was taller, but also because the Stone had not had as much time to grow the encasing; layer upon layer of filigree. Although the Stones grew fast at first, the rate of growth slowed radically after the completion of the first layer.

 _My soul was walking outside my body._ She said hesitantly, trying to explain the void she had floated in before the Lady had collected her fractured soul. _My soul was torn apart, and pieces sent far away from my body, losing all but the most tenuous connection to myself. A tiny strand of mithril chain remained, which kept me from floating away into starlight and death, though I could not have followed it back. The Song of Souls calls out to the lost souls tied to the bodies they encase… my younger self did not know why she came here, but the Stones have given us time to reforge what was torn asunder. Perhaps think of it like remaking a blade that has been shattered. The Stones hold the bodies of those who are placed in their keeping, while the Maker judges their Souls._

“How…how does it work? How are you speaking in my head?!” Kíli was convinced he was speaking to her, though he had not yet ruled out madness. He was of Thrór’s blood, after all.

_When I am… resting… I can feel those who come to the Stones, who send their pleas to the Mother. You are dummamum dumâmêul, blood of my blood. I can speak to all who share my blood through the Stones, for their blood is in the Stone._

“The Stones are made of our blood? **Rukhis**[252]!” Kíli exclaimed, horrified as he leapt from his seat on the oddly coloured dais. Geira’s light laughter rung in his head.

 _Not literally blood, bulsalus **[253]**. The Stones live on Songs, though they resonate most strongly with the Song of Souls. The voices of our forebears are all around us, Kíli, imprints that the Stones remember. Every time a Song sounds in the Mountain, the Stones rejoice, for new blood is given to them. The Stone Mother keeps the echoes of their joy alive in the Stones around you, for us to hear if we listen. This is Deep Lore, Kíli, _ somehow he could hear the frown when she continued, _did your grandmother never tell you the legend of the Stone Singer?_

“Stone Singer? Like Bifur?” Kíli felt confused, though he welcomed the sensation; it prevented him from considering the murky mire that bogged down his own thoughts lately.

 _No._ She chuckled. _Bifur is a Cantor, the highest level of Singers of the Voice. The Stone Singer was not a Cantor or even a Singer at all, for they did not exist, then._ Kíli sat down again, making himself comfortable leaning against Geira’s egg. In his head, she chuckled. At his back, the stone felt almost soft, as though it was malleable enough to shape itself to make him more comfortable. In the deep shadows along the walls, Nurtalëon recognised the look of expectation; Aiwë was telling the youngling a tale of old… the vanyaro smiled, and wished he could hear her too.

_The Stone Singer was a carver of stone, though it is wrong to give him the same name as all those who have Crafted stone through the ages. My mother, Narví Stonecarver, Narví Gatecrafter, is regarded as one of the paragons of her Craft, the shaping of stone. And yet, the Stone Singer would have made her creations pale in comparison. The Stone Singer, whose name is never spoken and whose Clan is no Clan and all Clans, created living stone. At first, Dwarrow thought it was a sin, an attempt to usurp the Maker, and the King ordered the Stone Singer’s execution. It was a great spectacle. All the Dwarrow of the Clan where the Stone Singer was born came to watch. When the executioner’s axe met the Stone Singer’s neck, however, a loud sound like the clash of thunder was heard, and the Stone Singer was unharmed. Beside him, with his hand stopping the deadly blade, with skin the colour of granite that seemed to sparkle, and hair the colour of red coals, stood Mahal. His voice swept over the cowering Dwarrow, who feared their end was nigh, like a sudden rock fall in the mountains. “Who dares presume that my Child is not as I made him?” he roared. None dared answer. The King of the Stone Singer’s Clan stood frozen, thinking that their Maker’s wrath would certainly doom all of his people. _

_Then the Stone Singer, whose name has been forgotten, spoke. “But they say I am trying to become You, Father of all Dwarrow.” And Mahal laughed._

_In his joy, there was love, love for all his Children, even as they feared him standing before them like an angry parent. “You can never be me, Child. I am the Voice and the Way. Mine are the Halls in the Mountains. You are my Child, as you are all my Children, and your skills are forged by my hand. I gave you a task, Child, to be the Stone Singer, to craft that which will let my Children Hear my Voice and Follow my Way.” Deep silence followed._

_Then the Stone Singer asked, still afraid for his life, “If it is as you say, then what have I made?” and Mahal laughed once more._

_“You have made the Singing Stones, a representation of the Stone Mother, which will carry the joy of my Children to my ears and allow my Voice to reach theirs. These Stones shall be given into the keeping of each of the Seven, and evermore shall Dwarrow bring a shard to their new dwellings.”_

_“But my creations grew!” The Stone Singer exclaimed. “They moved!” For this was what had so enraged his Clan, and made them think him blasphemous, even if the Stone Singer could not explain HOW he had done this Craft._

_“Your work grows with the joy and spirit of my Children. As the Singing Stones are exposed to your souls, so they will grow stronger. Nurture the Stones, and they will nurture you. They are blood of your blood, soul of your souls, keepers of your secrets. I give this Gift to you, my Children. Guard it well.” And the words hung in the air, though the speaker had vanished as instantly as he appeared. And the Stone Singer’s name was lost in trade for the Singing Stones, but that did not matter… for the Children of Mahal minded His Words and cared for the Singing Stones with all their love. In return, the Stones allowed for Singers to be born in their Mountains, raised them to spread the Way and listen to the Words, to Sing with the Voice of Mahal…_ Kíli was gaping as Geira trailed off. As she had said, the story of the Stone Singer was new to him. He wondered if there might be a copy in the Library he could show Ori.

“Why does no one remember the Stone Singer’s name?” he asked. Considering how much emphasis his kind placed on remembering their tales and legends, it seemed odd that such a Dwarf would be forgotten.

 _The Art of creating Soul Stones was never passed on, for Mahal took the Stone Singer home to Itdendûm once he had finished his task. The Stone Singer’s name… it is sacred, for in it is said to lie the key to unlocking the secret of Crafting the Singing Stones,_ Geira said. _To ensure that no one Clan could hoard the Stones and keep the Voice from reaching the others, Mahal wisely ensured that no one would be able to remember how the Stones were made nor who made them. The Stone Singer belongs to no Clan and to all Clans. In Itdendûm, he dwells with his family, of course, but no one there recognize him as the legendary Stone Singer. The Stones here are young, and I am tired, Kíli of my blood. Speaking this way is more than a little taxing. Tomorrow, you may return and speak to me of your troubles, if you like. I will listen, bulsalus._ Kíli nodded, his head swirling with thoughts. With a grin he had not flashed in far too long, the lanky Dwarf jumped up, and with a pat on Geira’s Stone-egg, he set off up the stairs, filled with a peculiar sense of well-being.

Kíli did not see the deeply disturbed Elf at the top of the stairs. Legolas had run back up after overhearing only Kíli’s part of the conversation. The revelation that the Stones were made with Dwarrow blood made him queasy, even more queasy than Legolas usually felt around the Singing Stones, and he had escaped as quickly as his legs could carry him, barely keeping his breakfast down. To him, his own constant discomfort was now explained. He was not of the Stone’s blood and the Stones knew it. Suddenly the ritualistic offering of blood that Nurtalëon had made seemed sensible, where at first he had considered it barbaric, but the thought did not make him eager to copy the strange dark-eyed ellon’s ritual. It was only far later that the second horrid implication hit him: if the Stone was made of blood, did that mean it was _eating_ Rhonith’s body?

 

* * *

 

 

Entering the Elvenking’s chamber was easy. Avoiding being skewered by Bronwe when he cleared his throat to announce his presence, however, required quick reflexes.

“Vanyaro,” Thranduil nodded calmly, his guard sheathing his blade with a mulish expression. Bronwe did not trust him, Nurtalëon knew, which was hardly surprising. “Why have you come to me?”

“She has spoken.” Nurtalëon said quietly, but he could see the light appearing in Thranduil’s eyes. Nurtalëon nodded, aware that they were both remembering when those words were spoken by grey-bearded Dwarf King with blue eyes. Nurtalëon himself – while strong enough to demand that the Elven healers treat his wounds in Khazad-dûm – had not been able to move or speak much at the time, but Raudigarr’s breathless announcement as Durin carried him through the door of the Healing Wards after yet another visit to the Stones, had been a ray of hope in both their hearts. “There is hope she will recover. From what I heard, she was telling Prince Kíli an old legend – a legend I know she learned from her grandmother.”

“Thank you.” Thranduil replied hoarsely. With a respectful nod, the Vanyaro left as quietly as he had entered, making his way to the room that belonged to his charge, even if she had stayed in it only a few times. The message on the wall made him smile. _This room is my beloved sister’s, may it be her home in Erebor._

 

* * *

 

 

Late in the evening, as Nurtalëon was making his way back to Aiwë’s room, Legolas finally did notice him.

“Where have you been?” Nurtalëon could see that the Prince tried not to make his query sound accusative, though he did not quite succeed.

“Where I may most often be found,” he replied mildly, “watching over Aiwë, keeping her safe.”

“Are you certain she is safe inside that Stone-prison?” Legolas asked, his earlier fears brought sharply back to his mind. Nurtalëon simply nodded, but did not expand on the topic. “How are you keeping her safe when no one has seen you for days?” Legolas did not understand this stranger – who might be an Elf, but certainly a different kind to the type of Elves he was used to. Nurtalëon was still, unlike the wild Silvans, but his still-ness was not that of quiet contemplation Legolas had seen in Imladris on his rare visits. Nor was it the stately peace of the Golden Wood that emanated from his dark eyes, which were glittering in the low light.

“Consider my name, Prince of Mirkwood.” The Vanyaro spoke softly, though Legolas detected a hint of amusement buried deep beneath the surface.

“Nurtalëon. Sad-flat?-male?[254]” Legolas frowned. That made absolutely no sense. Nurtalëon laughed aloud, his eyes suddenly seeming warmer. “Well, what does it mean then?” Legolas asked crossly.

“I see Aiwë was right in claiming you had no greater gift for languages,” Nurtalëon chuckled. “Nurta-lëo-n… it is Quenya, Legolas. Hide-shadow cast by any object-male… I have always had great stealth, young one, and I have had more than 6000 years to practise. In Sindarin, my name is Esgalwathon, Veiled-by-shadows. If I do not wish to be seen, I am not.” The amusement was clearer now. Legolas mastered himself enough to keep from wincing at his own foolishness being pointed out so clearly. Nurtalëon _had_ told them his Sindarin name when he arrived; Legolas had simply forgotten in all the confusion. “I have been with Aiwë, as I said.”

Legolas did not seem to have a comment, and when he looked up a second later, he was alone in the stone corridor once more, no sign of any other person. Trailing his hand along the smooth wall, Legolas walked the fourteen steps to his own door and got ready for his own rest.

 

* * *

 

 

 

[252] Eew/Urgh!

[253] Tiny-beryl

[254] Nûr-talu-on could over time become nurtaleon, though it is unlikely.


	42. Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little look at the past.

“Thorin, listen to me! Don’t go through with it!” she cried, chasing down her quarry. The Dwarf-king sped up, heading for his study, but she was not shaken off his tail so easily. “Thorin!”

“What would you have me do instead, Auntie?!” The Dwarf yelled, scrubbing his large hands across his face, the air of helplessness thick around him. “I cannot risk splitting my people – our people!”

“But your One is out there, kundanud,” she whispered, gripping his hands and staring intently into the blue eyes that mirrored her own. “She is! You _will find her_ , I know it!”

“I know she is, but I do not have a choice, Sharul.” The old endearment did not bring the smile back on her face, her pained blue eyes staring at him with a reflection of his own hopelessness. “She is not among the eligible ladies of the new settlement in Ered Mithrim and we need to keep our ties with the nobles who settled there.” He knew she knew; their losses in Khazad-dûm still fresh, the foundations of trust in the power of the Longbeard King had never been weaker. The truth was that he had no choice left, aside from the actual girl who would be his queen, and they both knew it. In a few days, he was meant to announce his ‘choice’ of queen or face the possibility of an uprising from the nobles who had settled further north than Erebor. Their line had held Lordship of the three clans since Durin’s first death, and tearing their people apart in the wake of such tragedy as the Fall was unthinkable.

“I am sorry, Kundanud. I wish I could spare you this burden.” She sighed, “But… Thorin, your happiness must count for something too. Do you even _like_ any of them?” She couldn’t help but plead. This cousin by blood was the closest to a son she would have, having been with him since he was a dwarfling and having been his staunch protector and support since the Fall. She also knew that was the reason for the shaken faith in his position that brewed among the displaced nobles. They thought she was too powerful, and even if she was half Dwarf, in the people that had historically been the friendliest towards the First-Born, she _remained_ an Elf to most of their eyes. Her influence on the King was indisputable, which had made the nobles uneasy even before the Fall. She had taken her word seriously when she had given it two millennia before, when she had sworn to be Usakh, and as soon as Durin had taken the crown, she had given up her talan in Lothlórien and moved into the Royal Palace. She had watched Náin grow up, watched him find love and though she had been far away when he lost his beloved in the birthing bed, she had returned as soon as the news found her and helped raise the Dwarfling who now stood before her as a King in his own right.

“I don’t know!” The King said, frustrated beyond endurance. “I’ve hardly spoken two words with any one of them!” Pacing his rooms might not help him make up his mind, but it did not hurt.

“Would they give you more time…” she began, hesitatingly, forcing the words out. “If I left, and did not return for some years?” For her Thorin, she would do anything, she knew, no matter how much leaving him to weather the storm alone would pain her. “We both know much of the pressure for an heir is due to those who think I am too influential.” Even if she simply moved to Greenwood for some years, it might be enough to sway some. She would be close enough to assure herself of his well-being, yet not so close as to be constantly in the people’s mind.

“No!” he grabbed her by the arm, fingers squeezing hard enough to bruise her pale skin. “If you left… if you left, I would be alone; I would have no one left who truly know me.” Thorin whispered brokenly. Silently she pulled him close, letting him rest his head against her chest and stroked his hair. “Please don’t go, Auntie, please.” Kings did not beg, he knew, but he would beg for this. She hushed him gently.

“Shosh, abadith, shosh,” she crooned. Tears pearled on her cheeks, but she did not let go, “We will make it right.” She did not know _how_ , but she _would_.

“How will it ever be right that I must marry against my will to a Dwarrowdam who is not my One. Why did the Maker grant me this knowledge if I am not to find the One who makes my Soul sing?” Thorin did not expect an answer, but even if he had, he could not have imagined the one he got.

“We will send for the candidates. We will tell them of your Dreams, and see what they say. We will get to know them, and we will choose the one who matches you best. There will be a binding contract for your marriage – there is precedent for that, even among commoners – and I will help craft it. We may not have access to the **Mazalufahn** , but I’m sure I remember much of the contract laws that apply, Lord Groma will help, I’m sure. If not… you are King, my darling, and you yet have the power to do this. You will bind yourself to her for as long as it takes to beget your heir, after which you will be free to spend your life with your One when or if you find her. I doubt the nobles will agree to the possibility of divorce, so your One will never be your wife, and her children will not inherit the throne.”

“What dam would agree to such a plan?” Thorin moaned, but he could not help but feel a frisson of hope in his chest.

“We _will_ find one.” Usakh swore.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Usakh sent for the twelve ladies whose parents had gained dominion over Ered Mithrim and who had been chosen by the nobles as Queen-prospects. Such was the power of the King’s Shadow-Watcher that none of the twelve denied the invitation – though she knew they would not be at ease in her presence.

Looking over the dozen finely dressed ladies, Lady Usakh snorted quietly. There was beauty here, and avarice, and a touch of romantic longing. Seated on what most resembled a throne, dressed in lavish silks and her hair bound with clasps and beads of mithril, only her lack of beard and her finely pointed ears gave away her Elven heritage. She looked every inch the Queen Mother she wasn’t. She did not speak, simply studying her guests. Eventually, one of the more fiery dams gathered up the courage to approach the legendary aunt of the King.

“Why have you summoned us, my Lady?” as she spoke, Birna’s voice faltered under the stern sapphire gaze that Lady Usakh turned on her until her final honorific came out as more of a squeak than a word. Behind her, one of the other ladies sniggered. On her mental list, Usakh crossed out Rannva, daughter of Orri.

“I have summoned you, Lady Birna, to aid in the King’s decision. It is the King’s desire to get to know more about his prospective brides, and although I would rather send the lot of you back to your fathers with a few important braids cut off, the King’s wish shall be granted. You are here to take part in a few tests.” Usakh did not mention that the King hadn’t made any such request of her; these tests were her own devising. To be a Queen of Dwarrow, her own mother had said, required not just a firm hand, a good mind, a compassionate heart or a beautiful face. To be a Queen required hard work and sacrifice. Narví’s own mother had become Queen of Khazad-dûm almost accidentally. Though her father was a Dwarf of some standing, the inventor of the crystal lamps so revered by Elves and Dwarrow alike, Ljufa had been a minstrel Singer, and if the King had not accidentally wandered into the tavern where she was playing, she would never have known him for her One. Love and devotion had let Ljufa get through the rigours of ruling beside her husband, but these dams would not have that advantage, and that made it even more important to find out what they were made of. Usakh sighed to herself. She pitied the young ladies gathered in her Small Council Hall.

“Tests, my Lady?” another dam asked, obviously nervous. Slight of build and dark of hair, Lady Hildur’s Blacklock family was clear.

“Being Queen will not be easy,” Usakh warned. She had been prepared since birth to be a ruler of Elves – as much as her father’s people found her a peculiarity, she _was_ the only child of Celebrimbor and ruling Eregion would have been her duty if it had not fallen shortly after its Lord. “It will test your patience, your mind, your body and your heart. I warn you now – the King has a One. It is not one of you. Your marriage will not begin with love, in fact it is likely it will not even begin with lust, for though his One is not yet discovered, the King has been sent many Dreams by the Maker.” Cries of dismay broke out at that news, even a few tears here and there. Usakh pitied the few fools who had assumed that love would grow in time. A romantic notion, and though Thorin might end up feeling fondly for whomever he married, if only as the mother of his first-born, he would probably also resent her for being the shackles that kept him from fully enjoying bonding with his One. “If you become Queen, how will you handle the appearance of your husband’s One at Court?” a wave of her hand and a small contingent of pages carried in tables, chairs and writing supplies. “Write down your answer, seal it with your own mark, and place it in the basket beside your desk.” Her test begun, Usakh observed the room keenly.

 

As the day went on, the ladies were forced to consider every aspect of the marriage they were about to enter. Usakh was not unkind in her questions, but she was merciless. Her priority was Thorin, of course, but she also felt responsible for whichever Lady was eventually picked. She could not stop the wedding from happening, but she could ensure that both participants entered with their eyes wide open.

“What do you think of your children playing with siblings by a different mother?” She wondered why such outrage occurred after this question – it was hardly the most personal one she had asked – but apparently those who had not already given up their rosy dreams had assumed that Thorin’s One and potential children would be kept away from Court _. If they had actually known my Thorin, they would not have been surprised_ , Usakh thought viciously, feeling a certain gleeful satisfaction in ticking off those whose faces showed malice at the thought of seeing the King’s bastards. The written answers to her many questions did matter, but she relied on her own observations too, walking around the room to look at each prospective bride more closely.

 

After the noonday meal, there were no more questions. Instead, Usakh lined up a long queue of petitioners and let each lady play at being Queen. Many matters fell under the Queen’s purview when it came to the petitions of the common Dwarf, and Usakh looked both for someone who cared about the plight of the person in front of them as well as someone who had a good grasp of their laws and customs. Standing silently next to the lady who had accepted her own vacated seat for the trial, Usakh was almost startled to hear the sixth lady speak to her.

“Lady Usakh, I don’t know the laws applicable here,” lady Fólva admitted. “Might I ask for your opinion?” The question concerned mining rights to a seam that had been discovered on the land owned by one family but continued into the property of two others.

“Nyrin.” Usakh commanded, her personal scribe immediately appearing at her side, his pen ready to jot down her judgement. Usakh had been handling the Small Petitioner’s Court ever since the Lonely Mountain had been settled. “Master Farik,” she began. “Has the vein in question been explored by a Prospector?” the Dwarf in front of the dais nodded, a little nervously.

“Aye, Lady Usakh, the Prospector was the one who told us it would only be profitable if we went into my neighbour’s mines.” He replied. Usakh nodded. Beside the petitioner, his neighbour stood, eyeing the ladies clustered on the dais. He seemed almost disinterested in the proceedings, staring at the bright jewel-tones of their dresses. Usakh was content to let him; there was an indefinable quality to the way he looked that made her think she knew what was happening.

“As I understand it, you have Master Rorin’s permission to dig into his mines. That the tunnel along with which the newly discovered seam runs may collapse when it is mined is a separate matter, and your petition concerns a ruling on the compensation Master Rorin may demand for any – gold, is it? – which is mined in his holdings.” Normally, she wouldn’t drag it out so long, but she was secretly impressed that Fólva had asked. The previous ladies had also been given petitions that tested their limits but each of them had tried to bluff their way through, or simply given in to the most charismatic of the petitioners. “It is my judgement that Master Rorin should pull his miners from the tunnel you will breach. You will then widen the tunnel, stabilising it as you go, and when it is safe to mine the newly discovered mine, each of you will get a half-share in its contents. Master Rorin will need to put in half the pay for the miners who dig the new tunnel, or he is only entitled to a share of 3 tenths of the gold. What is mined in your own holding, Master Farik, Master Rorin may not tax. To ensure neither of you attempt to cheat my orders, I will appoint an overseer for the operation.” Turning to Lady Fólva, Usakh smiled kindly. “It is a wise ruler who asks for aid when they need it. My commendations, Lady Fólva.”

“Thank you, Lady Usakh,” Master Rorin bowed. Beside him, Master Farik copied the move. Neither Dwarf was entirely satisfied, but then again, that was the mark of a good compromise, and Usakh had been very generous when she did not demand they pay for her overseer’s services. “Might I ask something else, my Lady?” Master Rorin continued. Usakh motioned for Lady Fólva to respond, and the lady nodded kindly.

“You may approach, Master Rorin, I sense your petition has turned a little personal?” Usakh tried not to smile. The reddened cheeks gave Rorin away.

“If I might ask the Lady’s pardon,” the miner – a wealthy Dwarf who owned several holdings within Erebor - asked. Usakh nodded. “I just… I have to ask the name of your enchanting companion with the green eyes and the red hair…”

Trying not to laugh, Usakh waved the lady in question forward, who seemed entirely tongue-tied by the miner’s attention. “This is Lady Arndís, daughter of Lord Vistri, from Thafar’abbad. Lady Arndís, Master Rorin.” Introductions made, Usakh stepped back, waving for the guard to bring in the next petitioner. Behind her, Lady Arndís – in a show of defiance against her father’s wishes that Usakh had not believed her capable of – accepted an invitation for dinner and a token of the miner’s esteem.

“Do convey my best wishes to the King, my Lady Usakh,” the previously meek dam said, her hand firmly clasped in Rorin’s rugged fist. “But I shall not be marrying him.”

“I wish you luck in your life, Lady Arndís,” Usakh replied with a nod of her head. “my felicitations on finding your One.” With that, the two Dwarrow left the dais, and Usakh gazed solemnly at the remaining eleven dwarrowdams.

“Ladies, if you know you have a One, I strongly urge you to consider following Arndís’s example.” She could see her words sinking in with a few of the ladies, though most of them shook their heads – whether because they wanted to be Queen more than they wanted a chance at finding their Kurdel, Usakh didn’t know.

“Do you have a One, Lady Usakh?” Lady Fólva asked, a little nervous, but apparently emboldened by her previous success with questioning the peredhel. Usakh smiled. Later, she wouldn’t be able to explain why she offered them the truth, but she did.

“I do, and he is dearer to me than all the riches of the earth. He is far away, though, for my One is not a Dwarf.”

 

* * *

 

 

When she let herself into Thorin’s study, moving with the silence that had made a young dwarfling name her smoke, Usakh felt more hopeful than she had the night before.

“Thorin.” She spoke, startling the King who had been contemplating the fire as though it might provide the name and location of his One if he but stared long enough.

“Auntie,” he replied, shaking himself out of his doze. “How did your day go?” His had been filled with meetings with scribes and lawmakers, trying to draft a preliminary marriage contract and enduring sly threats from those nobles who had accompanied their daughters.

“Well, I have pared it down to five candidates. One of the ladies found her One in the middle of Small Court,” she laughed, “and a few of the others backed out. Some were entirely unsuitable and you would have pushed Lady Hroda off a precipice within the week. I pity whomever she ends up marrying.” The image made Thorin chuckle, which was what she had wanted. Usakh smiled.

“And the ‘suitable’ prospects?” he asked, the mirth fleeing instantly.

“Ladies Fólva, Hrefna, Halla, Sissa, and Eirný.” She listed the names, spreading a compilation of the character of each lady before him. Thorin sighed. They spent long hours into the night going over every aspect Usakh had thought to investigate.

 

 

 

In the morning, the betrothal of King Thorin I and Lady Eirný was announced, to great celebration among the commoners, who did not see the reluctance hiding behind their King’s smile. Eirný looked – to sharp Elven eyes – as though she had cried, but the future Queen of Durin’s Folk smiled and waved at her people nonetheless.

 

 

* * *

 

“Must you go, Lady Usakh?” Queen Eirný asked, when the silent presence appeared in her lavish quarters. At her breast, little Prince Thráin, Heir to the Line of Durin, nursed peacefully.

“Have I not told you to dispense with the title, dear?” The half-Elven lady chuckled, coming to stand next to the Queen of Ered Mithrim.

“Yes, Auntie Sharul, but I wish you would reconsider.” Eirný replied sadly.

“It is best, Eirný,” she sighed, running a finger gently down the bulging cheek of the small pebble. “The people have looked to me for guidance overlong. You must be their Queen now, and you will do well, dear heart, but you cannot rule if those you seek to command look to me for approval.” Eirný nodded; she knew that, of course. “Thorin will be your ally in this, though I fear Embla will sow discontent if she can. You must not let her.”

“What do you know?” Suddenly worried, Eirný’s arms tightened around her small son.

“I have watched many souls during my years in this world, Eirný, and though I believe Embla could have been good for Thorin, there is jealousy in her heart that I fear will be their undoing. I know nothing certain, but… be careful. Protect yourself, your husband and your son.” Pressing her forehead against Eirný’s, she smiled gently.

“He will never feel for me the way he does her.” Eirný whispered.

“No. He loved Embla many years before they even met, and the Longing… you cannot compete with that bond, I fear, though I advise you do not ty. I have known Thorin from the time he was little more than a child, and I have known his father and his father’s father back through the ages. He will honour the vows he made you, and he will – in time – come to love you for the heart you possess. Your love will not be the fiercely burning passion of Longing sated, it is true, but it will burn steady.” Cupping Eirný’s cheek, Usakh turned the Queen to face her. “Your heart is kind and courageous, and I am content that we could have chosen no better Queen for our people. Remember that, dear heart.”

“It is… harder than I ever imagined,” Eirný sighed, “to see them together. Betimes I feel I am the one intruding.”

“I could wish that you had had time to learn each other before she arrived, it might have dispelled some of the fears you carry.”

“I could wish she had never come here, but it does no good to wish for such things as cannot be changed.” The Queen turned back to her son, shifting his to nurse the other side. “You will return to visit?” she asked. The support of Lady Usakh had been unwavering since the day of her betrothal, and she would sorely miss the calm guidance and acceptance of Thorin’s Aunt when she left.

“I shall return… five years from now. This I do swear. And, should you have need of me, afore such time, send a raven to the Elvenking of Greenwood. He usually has ways to reach me when I wander into the world.” Pressing a kiss to Eirný’s forehead and one to the top of Prince Thráin’s dark fuzz, Usakh turned to the door.

“Mukhuh bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi astû, Irak’amad.[255]”

“Mukhuh targzu satarrigi sigin, mudtu galkhur.[256]”

 

* * *

 

“Thorin.”

The King sighed, turning to face his aunt unhappily. “It is time then. You are determined to abandon me.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, darling. I leave you but for a brief span of years. You know as well as I that I do what must be done.” She answered, making him wince at his own petulance.

“Yes…” he sighed, looking at her properly. Dark shadows had found their home beneath her eyes, and he suddenly realised how _tired_ she seemed. “I will miss you, Auntie.”

“As I will miss you, child of mine heart,” she smiled, pulling him close for a hug. “Promise me that you will not forget to spend time with your Queen and your son while I am gone,” she whispered.

“He’s just so...small,” Thorin whispered back. “And so precious. I’m scared I’ll drop him,” he confessed, which made her laugh against the top of his head.

“You won’t. He was awake not five minutes ago. Perhaps this,” she gestured towards the pile of correspondence he had been trying to slog through, “could wait while you go and spend some time with your son.”

“Embla doesn’t… like it.” Thorin frowned. “When I am alone with Eirný.” His aunt smacked his arm sharply.

“I do not care! You swore to take care of your wife and any child you had by her, and Embla can grumble about it all she wishes, but that pebble belongs to you as much as Eirný and spending time getting to know him… Oh, my darling, you will curse yourself for missing any time you can snatch with your son.”

Thorin laughed. “I will miss your scoldings not at all, Auntie, for they tend to make me feel like a fool.” He hugged her. “Be off with you then, but return as soon as you wish.”

“I do love you, Thorin, but sometimes, you _are_ a fool,” she grinned at him, pushing him out the door ahead of her and sending him off to his wife’s rooms with a gentle shove.

 

* * *

 

With a smile, she set off on her sturdy mountain ram, a soft song falling from her lips as her mount ate up the miles, heading steadily south. _You will be well, son of my heart, and I pray the Maker grant you wisdom to deal with the hand you have been dealt._ With a little luck, she would arrive in time for the feast at Orvinui, she thought, longing to spend time once more in the cool caverns of Greenwood’s Royal Halls and enjoy the company of those she loved best among her father’s kindred. In her chest, the Longing was an almost physical sensation, pulling her on long past the hour most travellers would have stopped for the night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _I have loved many of Amad’s kin,_ Geira whispered, as the memories flooded her senses. What had at first been a series of jumbled memories with little cohesion was becoming strings of proper memories, playing out before her and through her, filling her heart and her mind with the thoughts and emotions the other half of her soul had experienced. The diffusely lit space the two halves found themselves occupying when they were both ‘awake’ at the same time was bright enough for her to see Rhonith’s gentle smile, the tears that had trailed down her cheeks as she looked at the raven-haired King drying slowly. _Yes._ The older version had not noticed, Geira could tell, but she was growing brighter, more real with each passing memory. Oddly enough, her own form diminishing did not fill her with the fear and anger she had felt when the Elves in Maicano’s tent had asked for a ‘cure’ for her. The change had happened slowly, almost without notice at first, no longer thinking of herself as the ‘real’ person and her older self as a stranger, but feeling that they were integral parts of each other.

 

 

###### notes:

[255] May Mahal’s Hammer shield you, Auntie.

[256] May your beard continue to grow longer, kind heart.


	43. Knowledge and Dread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glóin meets his new travel companions and leaves the Mountain, Thorin tries to keep a hold of his patience, and Kíli inadvertently reveals a secret to Legolas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my birthday, a chapter for you :) possibly two if I can get it done in time.

In the early hour before dawn, on November 30, Legolas had found Lord Glóin once more and led him to the meeting point he had agreed with Horthonion. He felt quite happy – now – that he had been foresighted enough to stop the messenger from riding back to Mirkwood with the caravan of the dead and wounded, even if his motive had not included getting one of his new friends home to meet his new pebble. Legolas chuckled to himself. Beside him, Glóin looked a little nervous, bleary from sleep that had not been as restive as it could have been. Maeassel had packed a small saddlebag of food for them, enough to last them the few days of travel that would see them reaching the Halls.

 

* * *

 

“This is Horthonion, Lord Glóin,” the Elven princeling said, gesturing to a dark-haired Elf atop an Elk that seemed much larger than it should have been possible for an elk to be. Glóin simply stared. If he mounted that thing, he’d be several heads further off the ground that he stood tall himself, a rather unappealing prospect. “He rides Celegrandir, the sire of my own mount Talagor, and the fastest of the Woodland Elks.” Legolas stroked the animal’s soft nose, while its intelligent brown eyes seemed to measure Glóin’s apprehensive form. Celegrandir left footprints in the light layer of snow that had fallen in the night as he danced restlessly on the spot. Glóin’s apprehension increased. Only the thought of Vár’s face when he returned home early could make him get on such a beast voluntarily, but he knew that he did not have a choice. The ponies they had bought in Laketown had been sent to the Iron Hills, to be used for bringing back necessary supplies to the Mountain, so it was this elk or his own two feet. Glóin sighed. He was really not looking forward to this trip. From atop the mount Horthornion bowed politely to them both, patting Celegrandir’s soft neck when the stag tossed its head.

“I will see the Dwarf safely to our Halls, _caun vuin_ ,” the ellon said, securing the bags of food he had been handed to the back of his saddle. Legolas nodded. Horthonion had been a messenger for almost a thousand years, but he had more than earned Legolas’ trust and friendship, even with his frequent absences. Thranduil might not bother himself about events outside their borders per se, but the Elvenking was in frequent correspondence with leaders elsewhere, of both Men and Elves, and Horthonion and his fellows were the way Thranduil kept abreast of the movements in the world.

“ _No lagor in aras lîn_ _[257]_!” he said, stepping back and letting Glóin step up beside the large elk. The top of the Dwarf’s hair only just reached the elk’s belly.

“Well,” Glóin said, steeling himself, “I think I’ll need a hand up. Or a box.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Fíli spent his morning with Balin and Uncle Thorin, studying old treaties Ori had unearthed in the Library – detailing the foundation of Dale and the original trade agreements made between Thrór and Thranduil when Durin’s Folk resettled in Erebor after the Cold-Drake killed King Dáin. The old advisor had resumed lessons in kingship almost immediately, but Fíli was happy with that, because the tediousness of Balin’s teachings at least kept him from dwelling on Kíli’s increasingly morose mien. The brother who had always had boundless energy and a penchant for mischief seemed gone, replaced by someone Fíli hardly recognised as his exuberant younger brother. He did not think it was simply the loss of his foot, but he was at a loss to explain the change in Kíli otherwise. The younger prince barely paid attention to Thorin – not even when the King was talking about the new foot he was designing for Kíli. Fíli was relatively sure Uncle Thorin was not _actually_ going to put feathered raven wings on it, but Kíli had simply shrugged and pronounced it a dull ‘fine’ as he had all other ideas or suggestions. The King and his Heir had exchanged a startled look at that, but all attempts to speak with Kíli were met with evasion or outright stonewalled. Fíli found himself hoping that his mother would hurry in her packing up of the Ered Luin settlement; surely Dís would know what was wrong with Kíli or be able to find it out through some sort of mystical Amad magic, he thought.

 

* * *

 

Legolas knew that he shouldn’t be following the youngest Prince, but when he had seen Kíli, moving as quickly as his crutch would let him, and tossing furtive glances behind him, the Elven Prince had been more than curious. As they darted through the hallways – Legolas used his superior senses to tell him Kíli’s whereabouts so the Dwarf did not spot him – the ellon soon realised their destination. After his shock the day before, he hesitated at the top of the stairs leading down to the Dwelling of the Singing Stones. He did not like coming down here, but perhaps he would learn something new or maybe Kíli could act as intermediary so Legolas could reassure himself that Rhonith was feeling alright inside the stone egg? Mind made up, the ellon snuck silently down the stairs, just in time to hear Kíli, asking with all the innocence in the world: “You have a One? I don’t know why I’m surprised.” At that point, Legolas would have given anything to be able to hear her reply, but he obviously had no such luck. Cursing himself for a fool, Legolas slowly made his way back to his room, making a cursory attempt to gather himself for the upcoming meeting. He did not know what to make of the implication. Surely if she _had_ a One, like Kíli seemed to imply, she would have told him?

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin shot a frustrated look at Fari, but the Master engineer did not seem to notice or care, lost in his explanation of his new invention; a prosthetic leg that allowed a person to walk normally, through the clever use of finely made hinges.

“Master Fari,” he interrupted, kindly, but with more than a hint of impatience, “while I agree that your invention seems useful, we do not currently host any horologists in Erebor, who could make the intricate parts this leg requires. I asked you to design a temporary leg for my youngest nephew, please do so in a manner that its construction is feasible before spring!”

“But King Thorin, my invention is far better than a mere fake foot or peg leg as we have seen in older days!” Fari protested. Thorin valiantly stopped himself pinching the bridge of his nose. The loss of his own left arm – while annoying – was a lot less painful to him than watching Kíli hobble around so slowly. His youngest nephew had always been vibrant; an almost visible spark of life contained in a Dwarf’s body, and Thorin’s heart ached to see him so glum and dim. He fervently hoped that enabling Kíli to move freely once more – Dáin barely even had a limp – would let his nephew regain some of the brightness that the war had cost him. Thorin would have to answer to his sister, for letting her boys be so horrifically injured, but that was such a minor concern that it barely registered. Whatever Dís saw fit to do, his own mind had already tormented him with tenfold. He would bear her anger, add it to the rage that roared in his heart, but he would never apologise for bringing the boys along, and Dís would never demand it of him.

“And if I could, I would have you craft such a leg for my nephew, Master Fari, but it will have to wait until our most capable craftsmen can create the parts. We simply do not currently have anyone who can make such delicate hinges as you propose, and I don’t know if you might be able to find any in Erebor’s abandoned workshops. When my sister arrives with the first of our kin, we can revisit the situation, but she will not be here until spring, and Prince Kíli needs to learn to move without his lower leg before then. The crutch is not a long-term solution.” Not that he was ungrateful to the Elves – they had saved Kíli’s _life_ after all – but he really wished it did not have to have cost him his leg.

“Yes, my King, I will see to crafting an ordinary prosthetic for the younger Prince,” Fari said, subdued. The intricate schematic he had been showing off was pulled back towards the Dwarf, and Thorin felt inexplicably saddened to see it go. Master Fari, after all, was one of the best mechanical engineers in the Iron Hills, and his invention potentially life-changing for people like Kíli.

“Thank you,” Thorin said, infusing his voice with as much gratitude as he could muster. It wasn’t Master Fari’s fault that the leg he had designed could not be made by the craftsmen who were already here. “When we can have a true prototype of your invention made, I will be very interested to see it, Master Fari, it has great potential.” It did; consisting of a new type of hinge system around the knee, it was attached to the thigh with a strong leather cuff. The hollow fake leg and foot attached to the hinges would mean that Kíli’s weight would be more evenly distributed, rather than resting on the place his leg had been severed.

“Thank you, King Thorin.” With a bow, Master Fari gathered up his drawings and left Thorin’s study.

Thorin understood why Master Fari had wanted to make it for the youngest Prince; the invention had potential to be revolutionary and if Kíli liked it, Master Fari would be held in great esteem for his invention. The Master Engineer might get himself promoted within his Guild, and when old Lord Illugi finally joined Mahal’s Guard, Master Fari would have a strong vote or possibly candidacy for the post.

The King pinched his brow. He could feel the headache forming already, and he could not expect Dwalin to show up to massage it away. He sighed. He had dutifully reported on the physical state of all members of the Company in the letter he had sent the day before, even detailing the whole sorry business surrounding Master Baggins’s theft of the Arkenstone, which was still in Bard’s keeping. He had added his pleas that she help Bombur’s family as much as she could, when it came to relocating, even if he knew that Dís had probably already thought of it herself. He had asked her to keep an eye on all those the Company left behind, and if Dís had not already known Athalrún through Víli’s friendship with Bofur and Bombur, she would have made it a point to meet her. He had not, however, added a single word about the estrangement between himself and Dwalin, because he knew that his sister would just tell him to talk to the Guard-Captain, something Thorin already knew they needed and something Dwalin was doing his very best to avoid doing. He could feel the dull pain of the separation, almost like a physical wound, twinge every time Dwalin’s face crossed his mind. It did not help that he could see his One was hurting, the few times Dwalin could not avoid being in his vicinity, yet he did not know how to heal the hurts his actions had caused. He had – during the long hours of the night when he missed Dwalin’s snoring next to him more than he missed his lost arm – made and discarded a multitude of plans. He needed to get Dwalin alone, somewhere he could not run, and then they had to have it out properly. Thorin grimaced. He had never been good with words when it came to his own feelings, but somehow he did not think that offering Dwalin an unguarded punch would cut it now like it had that time in the armoury with the ambassador’s daughter.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Legolas comes here?_ The question appeared in Kíli’s head when he returned to the Stones the next morning. He had had to evade Fíli’s pointed questions and Thorin’s piercing gaze, but the young archer was reasonably sure that he had not been followed.

“He was insistent. Uncle Thorin just…gave in.” Kíli had wondered at that, but he had not wanted to question his new amenable Uncle…too much. It did seem a little weird that Thorin would let an Elf into one of the most Sacred Places known to their people without kicking up a great fuss about it, but at least he wasn’t a raving madman, so he was probably as alright as could be expected.

 _He cannot hear me,_ came the melancholy answer. With a sigh, Kíli sat down, enjoying the feel of the Soul-Stone against his back. He tossed his crutch down beside him and tried to avoid looking at the place where his leg used to be, but it was difficult to ignore the disparity.

“Well, he’s not a Dwarf, aye?” Kíli said hesitantly, and received a wordless but mirthful chuckle in response. He relaxed slightly.

 _A wise answer, Kíli of my blood. What troubles you, Bulsalus? You are weighted down by your thoughts._ Kíli felt as though a warm hand was cupping his face, and – almost against his will – the root of all his misery came tumbling out of his mouth.

“How do you know if you’ve found your One?”

_It is not always clear... Some find them through touch, for some it is a smell they love that always seem to surround their One, even when it should not. To some, it is simply known, as though the Soul reaches through the flesh to touch its mate. Some take longer to realise than others, of course, and some never feel it even if they are the One of another. Some live with the Longing for many years, searching or waiting._

“But I never had the Longing, before.” Kíli protested.

_But you feel it now? The sense that your world is brighter when you can look at your One, that you sleep better when your Soul knows they are safe, that you can think of little but that One when you are apart? The Longing is almost physical when it guides you to the path of your One, it is... both like and unlike falling in love as I have heard that described. Each Dwarf who is lucky enough to find theirs describe it differently, Kíli, but the Longing is almost unmistakable. I have known mine since he was born, but in that I am lucky – or perhaps cursed, I have never decided – for most Dwarrow need to seek out the one who sates the Longing._

_“_ You have a One?” He asked, more incredulous than he expected at the news. “I don’t know why I’m surprised, you are Khuzd after all.” Kíli chuckled when he perceived nothing but a raised eyebrow sort of feeling in response. At least this time he had not offended her by speaking without thinking first.

 _If you have discovered your One, why are you so glum, Bulsalus? You should be joyous at this occasion. So many never find their Ones… You are young and that you have already found the one who makes your Soul sing is a sign of great favour from the Maker._ Kíli couldn’t help the snort that escaped him at that, scowling at his missing leg. He didn’t feel very lucky.

“Because I’m not…” Kíli did not know how to explain it. How did one tell a disembodied voice that what you feared was rejection because you weren’t considered attractive? And now, he wasn’t even a whole Dwarf anymore either, Kíli thought, scowl intensifying. The bandages peeking out from where the leg of his trousers had been pinned together seemed to mock him with their stark white colour. No matter his lack of words, Geira seemed to know his fears.

 _You are unlike other Dwarrow, Kíli of my blood, and I will guess that as a child, they let you know?_ Kíli nodded, feeling a little vindicated at the feeling of Geira’s fury sweeping across his mind.

“I can’t even grow a proper beard, and I’ll never be as good-looking as Dwalin or Glóin. I’m too skinny, and tall! I like archery, and pulling pranks and talking to bloody Elves!” Kíli ranted, almost excited to get it all out. “I’m not a very good Dwarf. Fíli was always getting into scraps with people calling me a half-elf child, or a Man’s bastard!” He had spent many nights weeping quietly about that last accusation, that stain against his Amad’s honour, but he had never dared bring it to Dís. He had told Uncle Thorin once, and the words had made him go all funny and scarily quiet, before he’d grabbed Kíli up in a tight hug and told him with absolute certainty that he was a Dwarf, born of a Dwarf, sired by a Dwarf. Kíli had been all of fifteen at the time, but he had never doubted that Thorin told him the truth. That did not mean the whispers did not pain him, however, and they only grew more vicious as he grew.

 _You are not a classically built Longbeard, this is true,_ Geira replied thoughtfully. _You share the colouring of Durin II, like your Uncle, though you have the bone structure and the keen eyes of a Sandwalker, those who hunt in the red sands near the Orocarni. Your great-great-grandfather, Rekkr, father of Vrís, mother of Frís, was born there, in the red wastes where the unwary meet a swift end, and you resemble him greatly. The Sandwalkers are famous for their mounted archers, and many of their Family work as sellswords or caravan guards._ She chuckled softly. _Those who say you are not a proper Dwarf obviously do not have the sense they were born with. We are taught that Dwarrow were carved from stone and made to endure, but perhaps they have forgotten that ‘carved from stone’ does not mean that there is only one mould or one stone that represents all that a Dwarf should be. After all, when we pull a beryl from the ground, or a diamond, or any other stone, even a lump of granite, from which I am sure Dwalin was carved,_ in Kíli’s head, she winked roguishly and he couldn’t help the slight chuckle that escaped him. Geira continued solemnly, _We do not immediately put it in a setting and call it a jewel worthy of song, no. We shape it, to fit its purpose, and cut it, to make it shine, we polish it, to bring out the lustre of its hidden depths, we choose the perfect setting and accompanying stones for its function, and only then do we call it finished. That does not make it any more or any less a stone, however. Do you understand what I mean?_ Kíli cold only nod, wishing that someone had told him those words fifty years earlier; it might have saved Fíli a good number of bruises. _I promise you, your beard will come. At least, you have a little already, whereas my chin is entirely naked, something that has been remarked upon for over five millennia_ , a long-suffering sigh followed that sentence. Kíli was gasping, trying not to laugh out loud at the image of Geira being teased for _her_ lack of beard… suddenly his own scruff seemed almost enviable. _You are kind, Bulsalus, and you speak equally to all you meet, finding friends wherever you go. There is no shame in building friendships with other races; even your Uncle Thorin does not hate ALL non-Dwarrow. You are funny, and when you smile you make those around you smile with you, laugh with you, not at you, which is no small thing when it comes to your future role as Prince Under the Mountain. You are young, but a hard worker, and a loyal friend, and I am proud to call you my blood, Kíli. I think any Dwarf would be lucky to be your One._

“Th-Thank you,” Kíli exclaimed, uncaring that tears were rolling down his scarlet cheeks. He wasn’t used to being complimented so clearly by anyone. “ **Akhminruki astî**.[258]” Geira let him sit in silence, mulling over her words, as she attempted to regain more of her younger self’s memories. When she spoke once more, her voice was that of her younger self, though Kíli barely noticed.

_Do you know what my Amad used to say, when children were unkind to me? She told me that, as a child of two races, I would be the best of both, a ruby of Dwarrowkind and a diamond among Elves. I grew slowly, compared to my Dwarven age-mates, and I could not wield their heavy weapons, for Elves mature mentally much faster than we grow physically. I was born among Elves, and I did not come to live in Khazad-dûm until I was twenty years of age. I watched many Dwarrow grow up, my cousins having their first children before I was even half-way grown. When my Amad died, I was 112 years old, only barely old enough to be considered past the first blush of my childhood, an age where Dwarrow may already have both one and two children of their own or at least be almost done with their chosen Mastery. Mortals are fleeting, Kíli, a lesson I learned young, and I urge you to tell your One how you feel._

“But what if Ori doesn’t feel it? He’s known me for years in Ered Luin, at least in passing. Surely I would have noticed…something.” Kíli whispered fearfully. In his mind, Geira surrounded him with what felt like a hug, smiling softly.

 _I assume the bond was Battle-Forged, it is unlikely to be one-sided. You must remember that you are still quite young, and that you are a Prince, Kíli, even if that did not mean as much in Ered Luin as it does in Erebor. If I were to guess, I think Ori is very aware of his status in comparison to yours. Perhaps he is fretting as much as you are about this. Change can be scary, Kíli, but either way, I think you will feel better knowing._ With that, she faded away, until her presence was unremarkable among the voices of the Song around him, and Kíli knew that his audience was over. He could not help voicing his final question, however: “Did you ever tell yours?”

 

* * *

 

 _You never did tell him_ , Geira said, when the presence of the Stones faded away and with it their connection to the soul of her kinsman.

 _No,_ Rhonith replied, melancholy as she watched once more the scene of Legolas being born, feeling the wonder of recognition wash over her; a feeling she relived every time she touched him since the first time.

 _I do not understand… even I felt it, though I did not know what it was. Laicolasson was sad, and I needed to make him feel happy, so I hugged him. I do not understand why._ Whirling through the memory of waking in Maicano’s tent, she focused on the pained blue eyes of the ellon she called Laicolasson.

 _I know_ , Rhonith replied, before turning her attention to different memories they had not yet shared. The question was left unanswered.

* * *

 

Walking around in Erebor when it was full of working Dwarrow – even if that was currently less than two hundred individuals – was an experience in industrialism. Bilbo had been impressed with the speed with which Bombur had constructed the blockade for the Front Gate, but it was nothing compared to the feeling that suffused the very air now. Everywhere he looked, Bilbo saw busy Dwarrow, carting stone, hauling timber, or cleaning seventeen decades worth of grime from the most necessary rooms.

Those Dwarrow not busy with restauration and cleaning had been assigned the sorrowing task of collecting the dead that the Company had unearthed during the dark days of Thorin’s madness. The bones – some corpses had mummified in the dry mountain air, but most had turned to skeletons long time ago – were collected respectfully, put in small boxes with the person’s name and crest – if they knew it or the bones were wearing something that marked them – drawn on the side. Since there was little fear of the bones decaying, it had been decided simply to gather up all the dead in a room not far from the Singing Stones. There their surviving relatives could then either collect them for proper burial rituals, or, for those with no surviving kin, the Crown would see them properly returned to the stone in a ceremony that would be held on the six-month anniversary of the Battle of Five Armies. Dáin had at first wanted to bury them all as soon as possible, but those who had lost kin in Erebor – a fair number of those Iron Hills Dwarrow who remained to help, as well as those in the Company – had demanded the wait. It was only right that the surviving kin of the deceased have the chance to say their proper goodbyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Dwalin once more found himself in the peaceful depths, listening for his Amad’s voice in the Song that flowed around him, when the world above grew quiet enough that only his own nightmares kept him awake.

 _Sigrún is not really here, ranakâl._ Dwalin scowled at nothing when Geira spoke in his head. He wasn’t angry with her, exactly, but he didn’t particularly want to speak to her either. After a while, her voice sounded once more, though curiously quiet. _You’re not here to speak to me, so why do you come, ranakâl? Those who were here… there’s only me left. Me and the echoes of Song._ Dwalin looked up sharply at her words, his gaze finding the two eggs that had held the Iron Hills Dwarrow. The Soul-Stone was slowly dissolving.

“Were they not worthy?” he asked, confused, one of them was Dáin’s lieutenant, an altogether honourable Dwarf, Dwalin knew.

_Worthy? Of what?_

“Healing,” Dwalin said hoarsely, unable to take his eyes off the melting stone.

 _Healing is not what being put into the Stones is about, sweet ranakâl._ Geira was not precisely laughing in his thoughts, but he could feel an undercurrent of amusement running through him. _They decided to let go. The Stones give your soul the time to choose, ranakâl, between staying and…moving on. Their choice was made, as mine was. They will wake in Itdendûm, cradled in the Maker’s arms, while their bodies are returned to the stone._

“What.” Dwalin understood nothing, but he was feeling worried all of a sudden.

 _Mahal carved Dwarrow from stone, we say, yet so many seem to have forgotten the meaning of the phrase,_ she mused _. Inside my casket, I am reverting to stone. After all, stone cannot bleed out or die, and those who are placed here are usually in need of this as a last resort. As it grows, the stone changes its occupant, becoming one with its host. The Stones are both anchor and prison, Dwalin. For those who live, it can bring you back from the brink. Those who die, however, are returned to the Stone. It is the price of the Living Stone. Sacrifice. While I have been here, I have probably grown thinner,_ she mused, and Dwalin realised that she couldn’t actually see anything. Somehow it was disconcerting, especially the way she always knew who was visiting.

 

* * *

 

 

Balin had developed a habit, during their lonely stay in the mountain, which he kept up now that Erebor’s halls once more rang with the sounds of their kin at work. Every night, he’d make his way down to the Great Forges, walk into the small workshop that had been the domain of Master Tindri, and speak to the memory of his Skaro. In the light of day, he felt slightly foolish thinking of speaking to his long-dead love, but somehow it was a comfort to resume the old habit of going by the workshop and unloading the events of his day while he waited for Skaro to finish his work. Of course, the workshop held no gently smiling goldsmith’s apprentice, nor did the glittering amber eyes of Master Tindri watch him from under bushy grey brows. It was still a place where Balin found an increasingly necessary measure of serenity – sorely needed to face another day of watching his brother run away from the King who was too afraid of rejection to chase him.

This evening, however, the infrequent sound of a hammer against metal came from the workshop when Balin arrived hours after everyone would have finished working and gone to bed. Walking slowly up to the doorway, the old Dwarf was not sure what he’d see, but he had not expected the sight of his King – bare-chested and sweaty in the glow of the forge – trying to keep whatever he was hammering still through use of a pair of pliers he’d attached to his waist somehow, in place of his missing arm. He did not speak, at first, trying to discern Thorin’s purpose. When the dark-haired Dwarf threw his hammer into a corner of the room with a scream of frustration as the metal on the anvil moved with the force of his blows, however, Balin retreated as silently as he had arrived. He felt curiously uplifted by Thorin’s obvious loss of temper. Having watched his King almost as closely as he had watched their new allies in the past few days, Balin had felt troubled more than once at the mild-mannered Thorin he was shown. In many ways, the incongruent meekness had been as worrying as the madness that preceded it; Thorin had never been what one might call a soft Dwarf, and his life had only tempered the core of steel he had been born with. Balin had found himself wondering if the madness was truly gone – might it simply have assumed a different form? Thorin controlled himself so firmly that Balin had begun to wonder which parts of his friend had come back in truth, but the loudly cursing Dwarf he had left to his doomed attempt at one-handed smithing proved his fears unfounded. Balin drew a breath of relief, walking back to the house he shared with Dwalin. Tonight had at least proved one thing to the old advisor: The King had been trying to work on what looked like the blade of an axe.

 

 

 

###### notes:

[257] May your elk be swift!

[258] Thank you wholeheartedly (directed at a female)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Prosthetic leg](https://nyamcenterforhistory.files.wordpress.com/2014/12/verduin_differtatio_1696_tabvii_watermark.jpg)  
>  The leg, the first of its kind that allowed for knee movement for below-knee amputees, was invented by Dutch surgeon Pieter Verduyn in 1696, and I don't consider it outside the scope of Dwarven engineering. If Hobbits - who are definitely not skilled metal-crafters - can have indoor plumming, as well as big grandfather clocks, Dwarrow should be able to create the intricate parts that make up this invention.  
> Extra note: Horologists are the people who make clocks etc.


	44. Meetings and Machinations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A despairing Elf, a hungry Hobbit, a shrewd Dwarf and a fleet-footed Elk.

Returning from another fruitless visit to the Stones, Legolas joined his Adar for breakfast.

“And how fares our Rhonith?” To mortal eyes, Legolas appeared unchanged, but Thranduil could see the strain around his eyes.

“The Singing Stones do not like me.” Legolas whispered. “I overheard Kíli speaking to Rhonith, though she does not speak when I visit. They are made of the blood of Dwarrow, and I… am not.”

“Speaking through the Song is a good sign.” Thranduil said, calmly reaching for the bowl of porridge he had been served, flavoured with a touch of golden honey from his own apiaries and some dried currants. “She will strengthen with time.”

“But why does she speak to them and not to me?” Legolas asked plaintively, handing the Elvenking a finely carved spoon with the outline of the Lonely Mountain etched into the handle and pulling his own bowl closer.

“You are not a Dwarf, Legolas.” Thranduil did not know how to make his son feel better, but he wished Legolas would spend less time with the Stones. His skin was beginning to take on a greyish tinge, like someone who had been away from fresh air and cheer for too long. “She may speak, but the Song does not rightly use words as we understand them. She’s speaking to their Souls, connected through time and Song since the time of the Stone Singer. It is one of the Mysteries that the First-Born will never unravel, for only those who are born of the Stone may fully grasp it. Do not concern yourself with wishing it were otherwise. You might as well wish to have been born a Man – it is as obtainable.” He had no desire to experience the effect of the Stones himself, for this time he would not be able to do anything about her condition – and Nurtalëon would alert them if anything should change, he knew. Thranduil did not understand why Legolas seemed so distrustful of the Noldo when he had pointed that out, for surely he could not think the Vanyaro would do anything to harm his charge?

“But Rhonith was never that different from us!” Legolas protested. “Surely then, we are not so different from Dwarrow.” Thranduil quickly hid the smile that appeared on his face at those words, wondering at how differently this son thought to his elder brothers. Thalion had been sceptical at first, but eventually he became a good friend of Rhonith’s, Thonnon had never considered her equal to them, and Thandir had cried when his twin had told him that she was not a real Elf, convinced that his beloved story-teller was going to die come morning. Thandir had always been too soft-hearted for his own good – and too easily influenced by Thonnon’s animosity.

“She is – and she is not. In some ways, she is as Elven as any of us, but she has learned since she was a babe what it means to be one of the Eldar, and I know there are many things we do that her Dwarven side finds highly illogical. I have always thought that is why she finds such joy in their company. Sellig is a Dwarf in many ways; to her eyes many things seem obvious that she has learned are not so for the Eldar.” Thranduil chuckled. “You will simply have to be patient.”

 

* * *

 

If Dwalin could be found nowhere else, he was probably with the Singing Stones, Thorin eventually realised. The sons of Sigrún, even if they had not inherited her Voice, had always been attuned to the Song and found it soothing. Thorin wondered if it was an influence from the womb, if Sigrún’s Song had wound its way through her sons’ pre-birth dreams. When he didn’t know where Dwalin was, he felt anxious, unsettled. He felt like time was running out, that Dwalin was waiting for him to do something, but Thorin did not know what. He was startled out of his thoughts when Balin announced the next point on his agenda: a meeting to discuss the return of the Arkenstone. Tharkûn had been invited, but he had been conspicuously absent from his lodgings when the messenger arrived to summon him to council, so Thorin did not expect to see the wizard. He might have worried, but he reasoned that Gandalf had been in worse scrapes than being lost in Erebor, a place he had visited during Thrór’s reign, and if necessary, the wizard could probably make himself easily found…if he wished it.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo had been given a small room in the Royal Guest Wing, next to the one occupied by King Thranduil he had been told, and the mosaics that covered the walls made him almost reluctant to leave. He might have stayed all day, admiring the geometric patterns that seemed to flow almost like water across the walls, and yet possessed none of the soft curves that water would generally carve. The large mural – made from a multitude of blue and green coloured stones, which was why he thought of water – stretched across an entire wall, spreading onto the adjoining walls and even moving up across parts of the ceiling. Even with his fear of water, Bilbo felt curiously relaxed among the almost lifelike waves, frozen in a perfect moment of movement as it was. When his stomach finally convinced him to leave, he almost ran into Fíli outside his door. The Prince – who had just left Legolas’s room with the Elf in tow – grabbed hold of Bilbo too, and began herding the two of them towards the small council chamber off his Uncle’s study.

“I’ll send off to the kitchens for some breakfast for you, Bilbo,” Fíli said, grinning mischievously when the Hobbit’s stomach grumbled at this interruption in its plans. Beside them, Legolas chuckled. “But Thorin is keen on settling the matter of the Arkenstone before we begin the trade negotiations, and you ought to be there.”

“But, I thought…” Bilbo stammered. “I was supposed to talk to Balin about the trial first!”

“Well, Balin’s at the meeting too, obviously,” Fíli said, moving them along the corridors at a speed that belied his lack of one eye. The first few days without his left eye had been painful, with oft-stubbed toes and more knocking into doorframes and furniture than Fíli cared to remember, but his depth perception was slowly improving – not getting better, but he had learned how to compensate when it came to estimating distances. His leg, although requiring a walking stick for tackling stairs, was well enough that Fíli had considered asking Master Dwalin – when in the role of Master-at-Arms for the two Princes, Dwalin was definitely not his Uncle, Fíli’s bruises would attest – if he would let him into the sparring rings to blow off steam, but the Prince had caught a glimpse of Dwalin earlier, and his Uncle’s worn countenance made the request die in his throat. He wanted to fix his Uncles, but Fíli did not know how, and Kíli had had no ideas either, when he had caught his brother in a rare moment of his old cheerfulness at dinner the day before. At breakfast today, Kíli had been as morose as before, and he would not answer Fíli’s questions nor share whatever was troubling him. It had made Fíli feel more than a little inadequate. He wished Dís was there. She would sort out Uncle Thorin and Dwalin – he hoped – and she would definitely sort out Kíli in a thrice. When they reached the door of the study, Fíli sent off one of the guards stationed outside to fetch them all a meal. Bilbo had been late enough in waking that it was more akin to elevenses than breakfast – first or second! – now, and his belly was reminding them loudly of its emptiness.

 

* * *

 

 

To Thorin’s mingled relief and annoyance, the dratted wizard had found their meeting on his own. He seemed content to sit silently in the corner, smoking his pipe, however, which Thorin found slightly frustrating to watch. He did not know where to begin, how to ensure that the Arkenstone was not dangerous, and it would have been a kindness if Gandalf had taken the first word. As it was, however, he was King, and had to act like it. Swallowing his – rather childish, even to his own mind – grumbling about wizards, Thorin rose from his seat at the head of the table. The meeting was attended by Balin, as Uzugbad, Fíli, as his Heir, and Dáin, who had muscled his way in and relied on Thorin’s lack of reason to banish him to stay. Bilbo, as the person who had had most contact with the Stone sat next to Fíli and Legolas, who had been joined by Thranduil, as the obvious representatives for the Elves; a courtesy Thorin had not initially considered making. Balin had argued that the two Elves had actually seen the Stone, and as Geira was currently unavailable for questioning, they might have some valuable insights. If not, it did not hurt their diplomatic ties to extend the courtesy of an invitation anyway. Bifur, as his Cantor, would be the one most capable of telling him whether the Arkenstone could be purified through the Song, and Bard, who currently had the Arkenstone under lock and key, guarded by his most trusted man from Laketown, was the final member of the informal council. Although most of the Men had returned to their homes, a few unlucky – or very loyal – sods had remained; camped in the snow a short distance away from the Front Gates. The Arkenstone had been buried in a small stone casket beneath one of their tents. Thorin would have preferred it be guarded by a Dwarf, but Balin had quietly dissuaded him from that plan. With what little they knew, it seemed as if the Stone had a potentially insidious effect on those near it, and the Company had already proven that Dwarrow were susceptible to the powers of Dragons. _Best not to tempt fate_ , Balin had said, which seemed a wise precaution to Thorin. The days when he had been influenced by the madness the gold of Smaug had brought out were hazy in his memory, large chunks of time forgotten. He clearly remembered ranting at Bilbo, claiming that one of his Companions had taken the Stone – in hindsight it was slightly ironic that he had said as much to the very Companion who _had_ taken it – and he remembered his last meeting with Dwalin clearly, to his eternal shame. Most of the time since Smaug’s death, however, and in part since they had left Laketown and crossed into the Desolation, Thorin only remembered in fragmented glimpses, as though his mind had been elsewhere while he had turned into a tyrant. The fact that he could not remember most of the transgressions he had perpetrated, however, was not a comfort. Thorin was a Dwarf accustomed to knowing himself, and having these holes in his recollections was unsettling. He remembered enough to feel deep shame, but he feared that a thousand minor cruelties had been left in the whirling maelstrom of madness, never to be recalled and repented. He thought he could see it in their eyes sometimes, Balin’s especially; it was not simply Dwalin’s trust he had broken. The worst part was that he did not know how to make amends with them either. He had apologised, and he had been accepted by all of them, each one claiming they bore no grudge for his madness, but Thorin knew that they would be watchful and at least a little wary for the next many years. He grieved the loss of their unconditional trust, but there was little to do besides hope that he would realise if the madness returned, and be able to prevent himself from damaging anyone else. It was his worst – even worse than losing Dwalin for good – fear; that he would become little more than a greedy shell, lost forever to the want of gold.

“Good morrow to you all,” he began, pleased to see that he instantly held their full attention, even Bilbo’s who had been whispering furiously at Fíli while rubbing his stomach. “I hope the accommodations assigned to you have been adequate. This meeting is a preliminary effort towards figuring out what the fate of the Arkenstone should be.” Thorin waved Bard to stand, a cue the Man did not miss, before he spoke again. “The Arkenstone is currently in the possession of King Bard –“ Thorin held up a hand to stall Dáin’s indignant protest. “Silence, Dáin. That is not up for debate.” Glaring at his cousin until the Lord of the Iron Hills subsided, Thorin continued, “but it will have to be returned, as an heirloom of my house.”

“May I speak?” Bard asked quietly. Thorin gave him a surprised look, but nodded. The Man looked slightly ill at ease but he gathered himself to speak calmly before the assembled, whose eyes were now all on him. “The Arkenstone is being guarded by one of my most trusted friends, but it is not without problems that we hold it. I can say nothing definite, but there have been several brawls between people I would have sworn were the best of friends in its vicinity. I cannot but remember the words of Lady Rhonith, when she laid eyes on the Arkenstone. She called it,” he shot a look at Thranduil, who nodded that his translation was accurate, “Poison-flower. I did not understand her distaste, but she looked at it with fear, which made my own mind apprehensive.”

“Smaug’s influence clings to the Arkenstone, like a veil of darkness. That much was clear on the night Bilbo delivered it from the Mountain.” Gandalf’s quiet certainty did not shock Thorin, who had honestly been expecting a sentence like that to appear much sooner. Dáin seemed taken aback, however, but Thorin silenced his protest with a hard glare. “I wish to examine it more deeply,” Gandalf continued, blithely ignoring Dáin’s splutter, “before I can say if it is evil by nature or simply corrupted by it.” Next to the wizard, Bifur was nodding. He had not seen the Arkenstone up close, but he would do what he could to discover its secrets.

“King Bard, if you have no objections, Bifur, the Lord Cantor, and Gandalf, the Wizard, will return to your camp with you, to see if they can discern the nature of the jewel. Until we know more, I am reluctant to return it to the Mountain. Even if the presence of Smaug has been eradicated from the Treasury, we all fell under its influence at least for a while. I do not wish to see that happen again. If you fear for the safety of the Arkenstone in your camp, alternate methods of safekeeping may have to be devised, but for now, the Arkenstone will remain with you.” Bard nodded. He did not look happy about the prospect, but he could see few other opportunities.

“Now for the second part of this meeting,” Balin said, standing. With a wave of permission, Thorin sat down, missing the presence of his One behind him keenly. Dwalin always made uncomfortable topics easier to discuss, even just by the sound of his steady breathing behind Thorin. “Discussing the theft of the Arkenstone by Master Bilbo Baggins, of Bag-End, Hobbiton, the Shire, a Companion of King Thorin.” Thorin couldn’t help the small chuckle at the look on Bilbo’s face when Balin pulled out the contract he had signed in his cosy home so many moons ago. Thorin himself had no idea how Balin had managed to keep hold of the sheaf of papers that were the Company’s contracts, but he put it down to some kind of Scrivener’s Talent and decidedly did _not_ think about Balin stuffing his underwear full of scrolls or something similar.

“I took it as my share!” Bilbo protested, but Balin shook his head.

“The value of the Arkenstone far outweighs the entire Treasury, Master Baggins, though neither you nor Kings Bard or Thranduil seemed to know or care about that when they agreed to your bargain.” Balin explained patiently.

“He is right,” Legolas interjected, “we accepted Bilbo’s proposed trade, one fourteenth share of the Treasury of Erebor, and the defence of the Mountain, against the return of the Arkenstone, which we only had because Master Baggins brought it from the Mountain. I know Adar’s intention was never to keep it, nor to accept payment in excess of what he and Thorin agreed upon for the housing of the Men of Laketown while they were evacuated, so we did not much care what price Master Bilbo promised us.” Thranduil nodded calmly, agreeing with his son.

“To my mind, the pre-existing agreement with the King of Durin’s Folk takes precedence, and I will relinquish the Arkenstone back to you gladly.” The Elvenking remained stoic as he spoke; the topic was relatively pointless to his mind. Master Bilbo – while acting in good faith – had not had any right to the bargain struck, and even when he agreed to it, he had had no intention of keeping the Arkenstone. Rhonith’s reaction to it had more than given him pause, and he had not even dared to touch the gem himself, keeping it wrapped up tightly in a piece of cloth.

“In addition to the theft and bargaining of the Arkenstone,” Balin continued drily, “there is the attempt – by the King – on the life of Master Baggins to consider, a heinous crime in itself, and only exacerbated by Bilbo’s status as a recognised Dwarf-Friend for his actions on the quest. Among these we can count riddling with trolls, thereby buying time for Master Gandalf here to save all our lives, as well as Master Baggins’ outright protection of the life of the King – at no thought to his own safety – against the scourge of Azog the Defiler.” Balin proclaimed pompously, while those who were not Dwarrow – and Bilbo counted among these as he hadn’t been brought up with the Dwarven justice system of boons claimed and granted – simply stared at the old Dwarf, wondering if the stress of the past few months had finally made Balin crack.

“I have apologised to Master Baggins for my abhorrent actions, though he has yet to ask his boon of forgiveness.” Thorin said mildly, playing into his cousin’s waiting hands perfectly. Balin had gone through all this with him even before Bilbo had been found, but – born diplomat that he was – Balin had always had a streak of theatricality in his soul, and Thorin tended to indulge his whims. If Balin thought something was important, he had learned early on, it usually was worth listening. Not that Thorin necessarily followed his cousin’s advice – but he did appreciate Balin’s keen mind and grasp of diplomatic strategy.

“What is this boon of forgiveness thing? Dori mentioned it when he fetched Master Baggins from my tent.” Bard interjected. Thorin almost scowled at him for ruining their fun, but Balin was a far more patient Dwarf than his King.

“Master Baggins is entitled to ask a boon of Thorin, which may be either a task or a deed or something he holds in equal value to his forgiveness. All that matters is that – as it concerns the King and a Noble Lord – the boon be asked in public and when Master Baggins’ wish has been fulfilled, he takes a stand to say so, also in public. Master Baggins can ask pretty much anything that is Thorin’s to give, or he may appoint an arbiter to act on his behalf. As Master Baggins is not familiar with our laws, I would suggest that he takes that option. Lords Dori and Bofur have both volunteered for the role, if you please, Master Baggins.” Balin shot the nervous Hobbit one of his calming avuncular smiles. It didn’t seem to have much effect on the little Hobbit.

“I still don’t understand what this has to do with Bilbo stealing the Arkenstone.” Bard said, shaking his head. Dwarven justice seemed mighty convoluted to him, whatever happened to paying a fine or being tossed in jail?

“The King’s life cannot be measured in coin, tradition dictates, which is why Master Baggins was considered worthy of his title upon claiming it. Stealing the Arkenstone, however, is an act of treason, which carries our heaviest sentence.” Thorin almost smiled. Balin was tapping a giant tome with a showman’s flourish, and only those who read Khuzdul knew that it was not – as those who did not probably believed – a tome of all their laws, but rather a tome on engineering of bridges which Balin had asked Ori to find in the Library to be delivered to Bombur after the meeting. Dáin looked as amused as both his cousins by now. The rest of the people around the meeting table looked slightly unconvinced that Thorin had not returned to madness. The King tried to smother his grin, but the mirth probably shone from his blue eyes.

“So you want Bilbo to claim a pardon for the theft as his boon for Thorin’s transgressions?” Legolas asked, proving that he was quicker than Thorin had expected.

“I want Master Baggins to claim whatever boon he feels will legitimately cause him to be able to put the entire affair at the Gates behind him, but what a splendid idea, Prince Legolas. Perhaps you have a future in the criminal justice system,” Balin claimed, solemn to the end. Thorin had always coveted his advisor’s expressionless face; Balin was the consummate actor when he wanted to be. A quick glance at Thranduil showed that the Elvenking was hiding his own amusement, something that did not surprise Thorin, who had long suspected that the Elf knew far more about his Dwarven neighbours and their ways than he let on.

“You planned this all along, didn’t you?” Fíli asked, genuinely curious. Thorin almost regretted not informing his Heir of the ploy, but Fíli’s earnest face was almost incapable of guile. Kíli could have pulled it off, but Fíli would have given the game away far too early.

“One can certainly make that claim, Prince Fíli,” Balin said, while Bilbo was rapidly turning the colour of chalk. “I won’t deny that it is a neat solution. None of us wanted to put our Burglar through a trial for High Treason.”

“But I didn’t mean to!” Bilbo wailed, and Thorin’s amusement abruptly died in his chest. “You can’t kill me!”

“Bilbo. Bilbo, calm down.” He said, looking at Fíli who was patting the distraught Hobbit’s arm ineffectually. “No one is going to kill you, Master Baggins,” he rumbled, when the little Burglar looked up. “What Balin means is that he wants the boon I owe you to be my pardoning your theft of the Arkenstone, which allows us to avoid putting everything on trial.”

“I don’t understand.” Bilbo said, looking more than a little confused.

“As a Dwarf-Friend, you are considered a Dwarf in regards to our criminal justice system. Those who have heard the story of your making off with the Arkenstone and handing it to an entirely different race would never let the matter drop quietly, even if Thorin would be inclined to do so,” Balin explained. Bilbo nodded. “This way, we appease those who doubt your value to us, by not only making you an honorary Dwarf, but it also shows that the King values you as his trusted companion.”

“My two scheming cousins mean to protect you, Master Baggins.” Dáin interjected. “I know many of those who went back to the Iron Hills will have spread the story of the Hobbit Burglar far and wide as soon as possible. The Crown has to be seen to take a stand on the issue, to ensure that no one decides to become a vigilante. If you have been officially pardoned, in accordance with our laws, anyone who attacks you for the slight thereafter is an oath-breaker and will have to answer for his crimes to both Thorin and Mahal.”

“Oath-breaker?” Bilbo had been nodding along with Dáin’s explanation until that point. Thorin supposed it didn’t make sense to other races.

“The Law is the Way, Bilbo, I know Kíli told you about that. The King’s Ruling is the highest institution of judgement, only surpassed under special circumstances by a Ruling of the Kings’ Council. When the King makes a Ruling – this happens rarely, as we have several levels of Judges and Lawmakers depending on the severity of the crime – his decision on the matter is considered a sacred oath to Mahal. This is the Way of our Laws. If the Law has been used, then the Way has been followed and anyone who would dare to claim otherwise will be put on trial for casting aspersions on my commitment to upholding the Way for our People.” Thorin said, sharing a solemn look with Balin. It was rare that someone questioned the King’s Ruling, and, when it did happen, the outcome was never pleasant. Of course, this did not concern drunken rambling in taverns and the like, but if anyone brought a legitimate suit against a King’s Ruling, the matter was given over to the Cantors who would go into seclusion until an answer came from Mahal. It had been three millennia since the last time Mahal had disagreed with a King’s Ruling, even if the challenges happened so rarely as to be negligible. “Such a Dwarf would be considered **Binakrâg**[259], and would be shorn and cast out to wander the surface in exile, never able to earn back the braids he had lost. His kin would not speak his name, and unless he managed to redeem himself through some great feat before he died, he probably would not be allowed to be returned to the Stone from whence he was born. The oath-breaker would have to beg a different clan to accept his bones or be buried according to the customs of the surface, and his spirit left to wander many winding paths before he could make it to the Halls of Waiting. It is a great shame, a stain upon the honour of his whole House, a very serious matter.” Thorin stroked his own short beard thoughtfully.

“Is your beard such a punishment?” Legolas asked, intrigued.

“No, Prince Legolas. I got my beard in grief, after the death of my brother and the Burning at Azanulbizar, as did all those who survived that day. I keep it shorn, as a visible reminder of my sorrow and my penance, my oath that one day I would give my people a new home.” Beside him, Balin chuckled lightly.

“Princess Dís, and Princess Frís before her have been telling him for years that he had fulfilled the oath, but Thorin was never convinced.” Looking straight at his cousin, the old Dwarf continued quietly, “I believe even you will consider your vow upheld, with the reclamation of Erebor, Thorin.”

Thorin could only nod, suddenly fighting a lump in his throat. He had not even considered the subject, but Balin had a point.

“Aye, Cousin, I’d have to agree with Cousin Balin there,” Dáin rumbled gently. “If that was all for now, I think it’s time for lunch. Yon pretty Elf-girl promised me she was making buns stuffed with honey and currants this afternoon and I think I’ll have to insist that several of them find their way onto my plate. Who knew Elves made such good food?” The honest puzzlement on his face made the assembled group chuckle, and only Balin saw the shrewd glint in Dáin’s eyes. Attention suitably off Thorin, Balin spoke up once more.

“We’ll need some time to prepare, so the Public Claim will be set for three days from now, on the 7th of ‘Afdush[260], at the tenth bell.” Balin finished, ending the meeting.

 

* * *

 

 

Elsewhere, Glóin was moving faster than he had ever tried before; every hour increasing his certainty that Dwarrow were not meant to ride such swift – or _tall_ – animals as Celegrandir. He had muttered as much under his breath, which had made Horthonion chuckle behind him. The massive stag’s steps were light and sure on the glistening snow, but Glóin did not feel reassured by the animal’s obvious skill. As the unlikely travel companions crossed the wide expanse of the Desolation, his hands clenched the reigns tighter and tighter, until the dwarf wondered if he would be able to let go when it came time to stop for the night. Even though he had spent many months on the back of a pony when he travelled with his trade caravans, the experience of riding a stag was vastly different, and his behind did not appreciate the sensation either. His legs were spread uncomfortable wide across Celegrandir’s back, which made Glóin convinced that he’d be walking funny for weeks once the ride was finally over. He didn’t want to complain to the Elf, of course, he had his pride after all, but he couldn’t keep from wincing when their mount cleared a large log by jumping what felt like a mile into the air. The landing was probably smoother than a horse could have managed, he had to admit, but he still felt more than a little jarred.

 

“The messenger stags are bred for swiftness and size, but the females are usually smaller. The Prince said you are to borrow one of our travel elks,” Horthonion spoke quietly, making Glóin jump from his hunched over position staring into the fire he had lit. “You will not be so sore on a different mount.” Horthonion had noticed the wincing as the Dwarf moved around their small camp, and the expression on Lord Glóin’s face told him he had guessed rightly as to the cause of it. “The snows have fallen swiftly this year; you might have to use a sled, however, which will be a little slower than riding on clear ground.”

“Ahh, yes.” Glóin didn’t really know what to say to the tall Elf, who was watching him with a gentle smile. “Do you want first watch?” he said instead, feeling slightly foolish when the Elf just laughed.

“I won’t need to sleep truly until we reach the Halls, Lord Glóin. If not for your needs, Celegrandir and I would not have stopped for rest until tomorrow evening. Our stags have great endurance, and Celegrandir is used to running for long stretches without stopping. Get what rest you wish, and I shall keep a lookout for trouble. We will set off when you wake.”

After that, there was silence, until Glóin’s snoring cut through the still and crisply cold night air. Horthonion stared in wonder; how could such a small being make such a loud sound without waking himself up?

 

 

 

###### notes:

[259] Without honour.

[260] December 5th  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewrote the bloody meeting so much I'm not even sure it makes sense anymore, but here you go!


	45. Remembrance part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another trip into the more recent past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seemed you all enjoyed the last remembrance segment, so here is the beginning of this tale (Chapters 1-8) as experienced by Ilsamirë.

Walking through the Deep Roads to avoid slogging through the heavy rainstorms she could see battering the mountain pass was an easy decision. Nurtalëon’s height would have made the going more difficult, but as the Vanyaro was safely home and dry in Lothlórien, she simply sent him a wry thought and turned slightly south, heading for the concealed entryway instead of the paths through the High Pass. She knew how to be quiet in Deep Places, after all, and, even a thousand years after her people had abandoned these peaks, she remembered the Deep Dwarf Roads. Goblins infested the upper reaches – their rickety Goblin Town was an insult to the craftsmanship of her forebears. The filth had not, however, dared brave the far depths of their occupied land. There were a few parts where the Goblins might find their way into the deepest tunnels, but the odds on them making it out again were not in the scavengers’ favour. Goblins did not have the Darksight granted her people by their Maker and the dark held little danger to her as she walked onwards through the winding tunnels, never uncertain in her steps, not faltering when she had to pick a branching tunnel. The tunnels, ancient roads of her mother’s kin, had been made as part of a mining system at first; the beautiful emeralds mined here were once in great demand all over Arda. Originally built for the purpose of avoiding the disruption of the Stone Giants who had been known to play in the mountains far above her head, the Deep Roads had been lost to all knowledge since the Fall. The Elves did not care to walk through the long dark, their eyes more suited to the bright light of the world above, and those of her kin who might have known of the Deep Roads were long-dead, their records lost in the depths of Khazad-dûm, or buried under the rubble of Zeleg'ubraz. The walk would take her no longer than going the paths above, after the initial detour to reach the entrance, and she would arrive in good time, probably even in time to have a proper soak and bath before evening meal in Imladris. As she walked, her thoughts were already in the bathhouse, imagining the pleasant scent of the bath oils, but her idle fantasies were interrupted sharply by the appearance of a lump of cloth-covered body. At first, she thought it a fallen Goblin, and bared her teeth in a satisfied snarl at the body in passing. The body groaned. A little further ahead, she could see another Goblin, its head caved in on one side from a nasty blow. A rocky outcropping not far above its corpse, blood still dripping from the stone, gave a likely cause of its death. Obviously, the two had fallen off a ledge somewhere, probably fighting over some scrap or other. The figure beside her groaned again, and she pulled out one of her short swords, watching it warily. If nothing else, she would give it a quicker death; more mercy than it probably deserved. Prodding the body with her foot, she turned it over and nearly dropped her weapon in shock. A Hobbit! What was a Hobbit doing in the tunnels below Goblin Town; tunnels she was fairly certain were only known to herself and possibly some rodents? Ilsamirë felt puzzled at the appearance of a Hobbit so far from the Shire. Could he be a guest of Elrond’s, far more adventurous than even Belladonna Took, who had been the last Hobbit to venture this far from their peaceful homelands? Sheathing the blade, she stared at the small being indecisively. Killing a Hobbit – altogether the most defenceless and peaceful creatures on Arda – felt inherently wrong, but if she left him down here, she might as well end his life to save him a slow death of starvation. The unconscious Hobbit might once have been wearing fine clothes, she thought, though they were worn from travel and ripped in places where the Hobbit had been caught by sharp rocks during his tumble. The pitiable creature groaned again, and suddenly her own streak of adventure reared its head. With a slight chuckle, she sheathed her blade and held out a hand to the little thing. _If nothing else, there is bound to be a story in this meeting_ , she thought, with a smile.

“Wake up, little Hobbit. This is not a good place to be unconscious.”

 

* * *

 

Picking her way through the darkness – not all parts were lit by lichen and she hadn’t thought of bringing a torch – she felt more than slightly amazed that her small companion didn’t complain once. Even when he stubbed his toes – she _tried_ to predict where his feet would land, but couldn’t always ensure he did not step on the smaller rocks – Bilbo Baggins said nothing harsher than ‘Bebother and confusticate these rocks’, which she worked very hard not to laugh at; it was just such a _Hobbit_ curse. Aside from the small outburst, Bilbo Baggins was a pleasant travelling companion; full of amusing stories about his homeland and his friends, with the flair for the telling of a natural storyteller. Discovering that he was indeed travelling _with_ Dwarrow, rather than seeking them out as she had believed at first, puzzled her greatly. In her experience, her kinsmen would be loath to bring such a small and soft creature along on any sort of quest, but with what she gleaned from Master Baggins’ amusing retelling of the night he met the Company – as he called them collectively – she knew they were not a group of merchants. She carefully checked her initial reaction to the name Thorin Oakenshield, wondering what Frís’s oldest son would be doing in the Misty Mountains. He could be heading for the Iron Hills, but the tight feeling in her gut told her that his purpose was most likely Erebor.

 

* * *

 

Meeting Thorin Oakenshield properly was a shock. She had seen him at Azanulbizar, and she had noted the resemblance then, but he had been far away and covered in gore, and he had not been staring at her like he was now. She vaguely noted the shock on their faces when she spoke to them in Khuzdul, and the way the old white-haired one was staring at her braids like he was trying to puzzle out a mystery. It was quite satisfying, somehow, she thought smugly, but it was a distant feeling compared to the part of her that was focused on one Dwarf and one dwarf alone. _Kundanud!_ She wanted to cry, she wanted to throw her arms around him and hold him tight, but at the same time she knew it _wasn’t_ _her Thorin_. He obviously didn’t recognise her, which hurt more than she had thought it would. When Frís told her _whose_ Memories her little Thorin was seeing in his dreams, she had half-expected that when they finally did meet, _this_ Thorin would know her face.  She managed to greet them all politely and actually felt quite happy for Mithrandir’s presence; it allowed her to focus on him, rather than stare at Thorin Oakenshield.

 

* * *

 

It had been many centuries since she had decided to take up the healer’s art, and the purity of soul it required meant abstaining from all kinds of bloodshed unless in dire need, but that did not mean she could not handle her weapons. Her Dwarven kin was altogether more practical in that regard, she felt, and though her Elven teachers had tried instilled a respect for life in her, she had never felt their supposed limitations of her skills as a healer no matter how many things she killed to defend herself or her friends. In the moment between firing and reloading her shortbow, she missed Nurtalëon fiercely. Her Vanyaro would not be happy to learn that she had been endangered on this supposedly safe trip, but he would be beyond livid to learn that she had faced Orcs without him. While her hands found arrow after arrow, firing her bow rapidly, she wondered what she would tell Nurtalëon when she finally returned – if she returned. He had not wanted her to go alone, had not wanted her to traverse the lands between Imladris and Lothlórien unaccompanied but she had forced him to remain home. Headstrong and stubborn, she had never believed herself in danger on this road and demanded that the Vanyaro remain where he was most needed. Firing arrows as quickly as she could, felling wargs and Orcs with impunity, she didn’t even notice the snarled Orcish that escaped her mouth, promising death and destruction for all who opposed her, but the Dwarrow did not hear – and wouldn’t have understood if they had – so her small slip went unnoticed. She hadn’t spoken the dark tongue for many years now – hadn’t even seen real Orcs in truth; the maggots that normally roamed the wild places of the world did not count. These orcs, the pale one and a few of the others, however, were a breed apart from the kind that the Orcs themselves called slave-orcs, the grunts of any Orc-force. These were elite soldiers as far as Orcs went, which was worrying. When her supply of arrows had dwindled to nothing, she pulled out her swords, though she had no chance to use them before massive claws closed around her, picking her out of the tree as easily as she might have picked a plum from its branch. The Eagle’s hold was as gentle and she trusted it to keep her secure, even as her eyes roamed for the figures of the Company around her being lifted away from the burning cliff tops. She had missed witnessing Thorin Oakenshield’s reckless charge, though she had seen him in the jaws of a giant white warg, hanging lifeless from its yellowy fangs. As the Eagle circled higher, she heard the roar of battle, fear-tinged fury ringing in every note of the warrior’s cry. The claws released her suddenly, but Ilsamirë did not scream, trusting that her saviour knew what he was doing. Landing easily on the back of a large female, she simply buried her fingers in the soft feathers of its neck and held on, careful not to pull on the plumage.

 

* * *

 

 _Not him!_ _Please, Maker, pity your Son and spare him._ Geira prayed fervently, her eyes tracking the eagle that held the unconscious shape of the Dwarf who looked so much like his father – and like _her_ Thorin – that she had known him instantly. Frís’ son, her little wolf, all grown and starting to silver, though he had no idea who _she_ was. With her logical mind, she knew that they were separate Dwarrow, but her heart did not care for logic; wailing ‘ _my son is dying!_ ’ and wishing that she could save him. Conversing with the Eagle who was carrying her aloft was almost impossible, but when Gwaihir lowered Thorin onto the flat top of the monolith Beorn called the Carrock, her own saviour swooped down swiftly, while her brethren remained circling. _Give me time to save him_ , she had begged, and the Eagles had heard her. She fell to her knees beside the fallen king. Not bothering to look at whatever damage he had suffered, certain it was extensive enough to be lethal, she simply plunged her own spirit into his body. No finesse or forethought influenced the act of desperation. Bringing her own legendary tenacity to bear against his stubbornness, the healing was a contest of strength, but Geira knew how to cheat. Distracting her combative patient with images of his mother, his sister, his _lover;_ she did not care what she was throwing at his mind, pulling from the depths of his soul. As long as it worked, her low crooning of Khuzdul endearments keeping him still as her fëa sought to mend what was broken, she did not care _how_. Throwing herself at his mental defences over and over, she felt it when the resistance began to crack, splintering under the force of her emotion. She could not bear to call it love, could not bear to admit to herself that she knew she would love this dwarf as she had his forebear almost a thousand years before, though a part of her remained aware that she was acting as though the Dwarf beneath her hands was her Thorin. She did not hear the Wizard’s approach, though she felt his power augmenting her own strength. When he pulled her away, she did not want to let go. Mithrandir saw clearly, however, where she did not, _could_ not, and when she returned to herself completely, she knew he had been right to stop her. The spells she had learned existed for a reason; this outpouring of raw soul was far too dangerous. Thorin would live; if she had continued much longer, she might have teetered on the brink herself. Squeezing Mithrandir’s arm, she got to her feet. Shielding her face from the Dwarrow, she let them think the Wizard had been the one to heal their King. It didn’t matter. Walking on legs she barely felt, she turned to the Lord of the Winds, thanking him in gentle Quenya.  
Scratching her fingers into the neck-feathers of the huntress who had given her name as Ceuranil, she hid the way her hands shook, but when her knees gave way, she simply sat down on the edge of the massive Carrock, leaning against Ceuranil’s warmth as she wept quietly. The sudden storm of grief for the Dwarf who had been dead for more than seven centuries was unexpected, and more than a little unwelcome. For the first time in many years, she wished for the warm embrace of a parent to shield her from the cold winds of the world. These Dwarrow, even if they were her kinsmen, were staring at her with poorly disguised hostility. She wished – for a moment – that she had never found the Hobbit in the tunnels, that she had taken the mountain paths, but it was a futile thought born of exhaustion and she immediately chastised herself for it. Staring blankly across the vast forest made her think of _him_ , and she wondered, as she often did in idle moments, what he was doing at that moment, not daring to hope he was thinking of her. Regaining control of her face with more difficulty than anticipated, she patted the soft feathery wall beside her. Ceuranil made what passed for a chuckle among her kin.

“ _Ma hortuval menta rá nin Imladrisenna? Paityuvanyel atta rasta liar-findenya_.[261]” The great Eagle considered her for a moment, before it nodded; to her ears the sound of its screech was an affirmative. Running her fingers through the loose bits of her hair, she yanked a few strands out, rolling them up and handing them to Ceuranil. The offer of hair was an ancient one, a custom that had originated in her father’s lands, where the Eagles would be employed as occasional scouts and hunters against payment of sacks filled with fine Elven hair. The Eagles used the hair to line their nests, and the Elves of Eregion enjoyed decorating their clothes and other things with the moulted feathers of the Eagles of Manwë.

Ilsamirë – she wondered what they would end up calling her, not daring to hope for friendship from this elf-hating son of her beloved sister – sat on the edge, hardly noticing the sight of the solitary Mountain beyond the forest, the golden light of dawn bathing its slopes. She did not hear the exclamations of the Dwarrow behind her, nor did she react when the one who called himself Thorin – though not _her_ Thorin, even if he was Frís’ son and technically considered her nephew – came to a stop directly behind her, staring raptly at the Mountain; his goal – so close and yet so far. Absorbed in thought, neither of them realised that the King was leaning on her shoulder as if it was a completely natural thing.

 

* * *

 

The less said about the perilous climb down the large steps Beorn had made, the better. Several times, she was aware of swaying dangerously close to falling; she would have plummeted off at least once if not for Mithrandir’s supportive grip on her arm as they followed the Company of Dwarrow.

 

* * *

 

The riverbank paled in comparison to the bathhouse she had dreamed about as she walked in the Deep Roads, but the cool water felt like silk against her skin, soothing her tired limbs. Of course, she was interrupted once more by the jarring experience of speaking to a Thorin who wasn’t _her_ Thorin and who seemed to have inherited all his grandfather’s belligerence. She could see none of the gentle harpist of Frís’s letters in him, nothing of the mother in the son, which made her both sad and angry. Exhaustion and sorrow made her snap at his impertinent questions; she hadn’t _decided_ to come along on whatever madcap adventure this group was undertaking, after all, simply to help a traveller in need. Her Amad might have scolded her for her tone, but Ilsamirë was far beyond caring, feeling wrung-out and overwhelmed by the events of her day. She was supposed to have been seated at Lord Elrond’s table for breakfast now, drinking tart apple juice and eating dainty pastries while she gossiped with the twins and told them news of their sister. She was _not_ supposed to be _here_ , exhausted, filthy, slightly singed in places, _and_ being insulted on top off it all! Walking away seemed the only possible way to keep her own temper in check. She was blessed with the long patience of her father’s kin, but it was sorely tested when she was exhausted. “ **Iklifumuni ‘alâ Khazâd!**[262]” She snarled, adding a low “ **Kakhuf inbarathrag**!” under her breath, when she overheard King Thorin’s – she had to keep thinking of him as King Thorin, or the resemblance was likely to make her slip into unwarranted endearments – command to the bald Dwarf who was apparently called Dwalin. She would bet a nice pouch of sapphires _that_ one was King Thorin’s Captain of Guards, though he seemed to be closer to the King than mere duty explained. Unbidden, one of the images she had seen in Thorin’s whirling mind came to her memory then. Not just _Shumrozbid,_ but _Amrâlimê…_ More than a little overwhelmed, she left the two Dwarrow to their suspicions, wanting to hit King Thorin for questioning her motives but deciding it was wiser simply to walk away.

 

* * *

 

Dreaming of the lovely stuffed pillows she could have been lounging on while she availed herself of the contents of Lord Elrond’s library and fenced words with her good friend Erestor, she walked along the river, considering her options. They were few enough, in truth, now that the Eagles were gone. She could melt off into the forest, of course, the Company would never catch her and might be glad enough to see her go. She could walk ahead – her lightness of foot would make her far swifter than these plodding Dwarrow, she knew – and try to make it to Beorn’s lands, and continue south to Lothlórien; Beorn might even lend her a pony. That would defeat the purpose of travelling to Imladris at all, however, trying to establish why Frís’s usual letters and gifts had not made it to the collection point in Bree. With a sigh – and a snarled invective aimed at the nearby wizard who was probably to blame somehow – Ilsamirë resigned herself to keeping company with the Dwarrow for the time being. At least they did not _all_ hate her on sight, though she knew the attitude of their King might soon change that. Perhaps they might even be persuaded to tell her news of Ered Luin, if she was circumspect about her interest? The young scribe, at least, whom Bilbo had called Ori, seemed interested in getting to know her, shooting her darting glances filled with curiosity. His older sister – though her hair was braided to mark her as a First Son, the colour gave her away – had also noticed the scribe’s apparent intrigue. Ilsamirë felt a different sort of curiosity from the mithril-haired dam, however, though she could not place it; a sense of wonder seemed to overlay a deep well of suspicion. The third brother – older than the scribe, but younger than the dam – seemed far easier to figure out. He was the kind who observed silently, something shifty in his eyes telling her he had lived a life filled with the sort of danger one could find in dark alleys. Intriguing how three so different siblings could be related, but their faces held clear traces of shared parentage. The two eldest – at least – had the same parents, and she eventually decided that the youngest shared their blood fully, though his mannerisms were a mix of his siblings’.

 

After filling her stomach with a bite of lembas, thankful that she always carried extra provisions, Ilsamirë felt much better. Sharing the little food she had with the younger members of the group bought her only a slight lessening of the glare she felt emanating from their leader, but it made her feel better to know that they were not starving. The small one – he was certainly the brother of her cousin, as she was not quite old enough to be a mother to someone who had turned his first century – was surprisingly endearing with all his questions, and of course Master Bilbo was entirely oblivious to the unspoken command from Thorin that she should be shunned. Hobbits were such terribly kind creatures, though fierce when truly riled. The thought made her smile. She would have expected no less from the son of Belladonna Took, however, but young Bilbo’s company provided a certain amusement as they walked.  
There was only one place Mithrandir could be heading, of course, and though she had visited her friend not a full moon before, she would have to impose on his hospitality once again. With a sigh, Ilsamirë made her way to the front of the group, intending on speaking to Mithrandir alone, but the Dwarf-King remained stubbornly beside them. She would have liked to continue speaking with Mithrandir, but shifting the conversation to Quenya – ensuring they would not be understood by the Dwarf-King – would have been rude, so she simply satisfied herself with a whispered ‘thank you’ and made her way back to answer more of Ori’s amusing questions.

 

* * *

 

She could barely hold back her tears at having the news of her sister’s death thrown into her face, and she was aware that King Thorin had seen the genuine grief in her eyes – however briefly. In that moment, she hated him, hated him with a fervour that scared her with its intensity. Her more rational side argued that Frís obviously hadn’t told her children about her Elven sister – it hurt, but less than she had expected to see the confirmation, knowing Frís’s cautious nature – but Ilsamirë’s anger was a roaring inferno that drowned out that sensible thought quickly. Venting her anger at the unrepentant Mithrandir was not altogether satisfying, though it allowed her a chance to cool down before she had to interact with King Thorin again. _Beorn probably wouldn’t kill them all if she simply left in the night?_ Her rage said. _But you would feel terrible about abandoning Frís’ beloved grandchildren to the mercy of the Forest,_ her heart argued. _True, though King Thorin deserves to be lost in Mirkwood for a few days,_ her anger agreed with a snide huff. Eventually, her heart won out. If only for his Amad’s sake, she would see Thorin Oakenshield reach his goal.

 

* * *

 

Drawing likenesses from memory was not much more difficult than drawing from life, though she had never considered herself an artist. Begging the loan of some paper from Ori and a stick of charcoal, she had taken her work outside, drawing by the light of the setting sun. She hadn’t known Thrór or Sigvór as well as she had known Frís of course, and though she had known Thraín reasonably well – through Frís’ many stories growing up – she had only seen him in person a few times. In the end, the paper showed four Dwarrow, as life-like as she could manage, even if it made tears well in her eyes to commit Frís’s dear face to it. She briefly wondered what had happened to the mourner’s locket she had made a century before, but decided it was prudent not to ask. The son of Thraín was obviously possessed of a volatile temper, and she did not want him to realise how deeply her grief cut just yet. There was time for him to get to know her, at least, even if he did not accept her offer of aid in getting through the forest.

 

* * *

 

 

When she heard the bowstrings being drawn back, she wanted to laugh, but she had a good idea as to who was playing a game with her companions and she would never spoil his fun. Instead, she enjoyed the look on Thorin’s face – he had treated her more politely since their talks at Beorn’s, but she had not forgotten his initial disdain – as he suddenly faced an armed Guard-patrol. Her vicious glee carefully masked, she broke the stalemate with a laugh, and finally _he_ was there. The wideness of her smile might give her away, but she did not care; after eighteen years’ absence, just being near him was heady. As always, the sight of him was marred by sorrow mingling with her happiness, but she felt joyous that he looked reasonably happy and content. The Dwarrow around them were of no concern to her in that moment, though their obvious fear put a damper on her mood when she realised.

 

* * *

 

Walking through the Forest in the Company of Elves was far different than walking through it trailing a company of sullen and pugnacious Dwarrow. Even if her Dwarrow – she wasn’t quite sure when they had become _her_ Dwarrow – remained churlish and combative, she didn’t care. Legolas was obviously mostly amused by their presence, and his group took the cue. She had half expected them to be led to Thranduil’s Halls in chains, so walking along the invisible-to-mortal-eyes-paths surrounded by the Guard-patrol was not worrying. If it had not been Legolas’ patrol, the Dwarrow, at least, would have been tied up, though Rhonith did not think it necessary to inform them of that fact.  
Sitting with the Dwarrow at night – when she really wanted to be across the fire – was a calculated move on her part. Her many years had taught her that Dwarrow were more likely to trust her if she was not standing next to an Elf, and she _needed_ King Thorin to trust her. He might have accepted her offer of aid, but he would have to trust her properly if she was going to be of any help to him once he reclaimed his home. Ilsamirë did not think about Smaug awaiting the Company, his maw open and hungry, somehow believing that this descendant of _her_ Thorin would do as he had set out to and take back his long-lost Kingdom.

 

* * *

 

She loved dancing. The Noldor favoured dancing alone, moving the body in concert with the tune or the tale being told, while the Silvans preferred wild jumping and spinning around with a partner; something that always made her laugh with enjoyment. The Dwarrow, however, treated dancing like a battle, a test of skill, and she had not danced like this since before the fall of Erebor when the Spymaster – who looked enough like Master Nori that he might be a relation, she wondered – had challenged her. The sheer savagery of the moves – at times a duel of blades more than a dance – would probably frighten some of the more timid Elves present, and Ilsamirë doubted Atheg would find it as entertaining as she did, but she did not care. She had long-since learned to take those kinds of pleasures when they were offered, and though the dark look Legolas shot her when she returned to the dais made her steps falter slightly, it could not dim her joy entirely. She would make no excuses for enjoying what Dwarven culture had to offer, a point she had made clear to anyone daring to question her more years ago than she cared to remember.

 

* * *

 

Balin was far kinder than he let on, she thought, making her way back to her own rooms. His Durin-blue eyes – the most common trait of the Line – seemed to radiate calm and reassurance. She had not intended to talk about her past with Thorin, though she knew he deserved a reason for her ‘abandonment’ but she had not expected Balin to follow her out simply because she seemed distressed by the conversation. Sometimes, it was worrying how canny her Dwarven kin could be; she was quite sure only a few close friends among Elves would have noticed her upset behind the calm mask she wore when she left the King’s bedroom.

“I promise you I will look after the Dwarrow,” Legolas said, appearing quiet as a cat beside her.

“It is not the road to Esgaroth that worries me, mellon,” she sighed. “It is what awaits them inside the Mountain. I am…uneasy. Atheg was right to stop me, but… I wish I could trust that I would have been strong enough to go.”

“I am happy you are not.” The ellon replied. She wanted to smile, even though he wasn’t jesting. She might act like it annoyed her, but she rather liked the protectiveness she inspired in both Legolas and Thranduil. “Will you stay a while after I return? It seems so long since you were last here, and I have missed you. We should be back in time for _Mereth Nuin Giliath,_ I hope… perhaps you would honour me with a dance?”

“Would it not be my honour, to have a Prince of the Realm ask me to dance at a feast more than four lefneir away?” she teased.

“Ahh, but you are a visiting Princess, so I would argue that the honour is mine,” Legolas bantered. Rhonith chuckled.

“Visiting Princess, hmm? Well, then I would argue that you have asked me, my Lord Prince, for the sake of duty, rather than fondness for my company, and that customs require me to accept at least one dance.”

“So I must ask you twice to seem genuine in the offering?” This time, Legolas was the one who laughed. “Then, my Lady Princess, I humbly ask that you devote at least three dances to me… and let fondness for my company outweigh the voice of duty.” He swept her a courtly bow; she had taught him Gondorian Court etiquette for amusement once, and it remained an inside joke between them.

“Well, I must admit to some fondness for your company…” she trailed off, opening the door to his patrol room, “if nothing else, you make me laugh.” Finding her place among those who had already settled into reverie, Rhonith let her spirit roam freely along the Path of Dreams.

 

###### notes:

[261] Will you take a message flying to Imladris on my behalf? I will pay you two dozen strands of my hair.

[262] Damn these Dwarrow! ... Goat turd!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The muse for this is being a troll and making me write preliminary pieces of a lotr based story instead, sigh. I've decided that it won't be a 10th walker scenario, mostly because I believe Tolkien had a point with the symmetry of Fellowship vs Ring-Wraiths.  
> Apologies for the long wait! I'll try to get the next chapter out a little quicker.


	46. Longing and Lore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kíli tries to be covert, which is hard on crutches.  
> Nori has a Talk.  
> Thorin has a minor breakdown.

Dwalin threw himself into the restoration of Erebor, working from before sun-up to way past sunset to ensure the mountain’s safety and the well-being of the people sheltered within. At least that was what he told Balin, whenever his older brother started talking about things Dwalin did not wish to discuss. Dáin had brought several dwarrow with him who had experience in the Shamâr, but Dwalin found that he missed his Shugjaj[263], Álfífa, from Ered Luin, who had trained Kíli in archery. He missed her, not only because she was a competent leader, but also because she knew Kíli better than practically anyone not related to the lad, and like Fíli he had noticed the youngest Durinson’s listless attitude. His self-appointed task to discover what was wrong with Kíli was going about as well as his attempts to sort out his own clouded emotions, though – compared to exhausting himself with hauling stone when he wasn’t avoiding Thorin or sorting out guard rosters – this task actually earned Balin’s approval. Dwalin appreciated that small grace greatly, simply because claiming to be worried about the lad meant Balin did not have an excuse to give him one of _those_ looks. Dwalin did not like _those_ looks and so he had put all his determination towards making the Mountain secure; organising guard rosters and compiling reports on the scattered bands of Orcs that had fled the Battle. When he was not busy, he tended to visit Geira in the Stones. Use of the Dwarven Outer-name had caught on, partly due to Dáin’s steadfast refusal to call her anything else and partly due the fact that the Iron Hills Dwarrow felt it was part of some sort of ‘reclaiming the elf-cousin’-project of his. Dwalin blamed Dáin and a whole lot of Laketown ale for that. What they hadn’t swigged during the party for Smaug’s defeat had quickly been pooled with Dáin’s supplies and consumed at the celebration of the Victory of the Five Armies. Dwalin might not have been present for most of it, but everyone who was anyone agreed that it had been a Margel worthy of song – which had then promptly been written and since sung and re-sung in the one ‘tavern’ Erebor could boast. An enterprising Dwarf from the Iron Hills had made his cousins – and most of their stock of ale casks and beer kegs – follow three days behind Dáin’s army, and the Broken Axle was a reality almost before the wounded had been moved inside the Mountain. Their business license was a pro forma piece of paper which would be ratified eventually – meaning whenever Balin managed to unearth the true Royal Seal from wherever Smaug or Thrór had hidden it. They had the old iron one from Ered Luin so the whereabouts of the Seal ended up fairly low on his brother’s list of priorities. Balin had been quite exasperated when he told Dwalin about the whole debacle; if anyone was willing to search for the Seal, he’d gladly give the Broken Axle a new copy of their license, perhaps in a nice frame… after he had violently beaten whoever complained with the Seal in question. Dwalin had done his best not to laugh at the image, but the thought of an unfortunate Dwarf – probably one of Dáin’s stuffier nobles – with the mark of the Royal Seal stamped across their forehead was one of the first things he had found funny since the death of Smaug.

There was probably little more than a core of truth in most of the stanzas, of course, but the songs of the Battle of Five Armies – and their subsequent drunken revelry – quickly became legend. The claim that Óin was a table-dancer of renown seemed rather unlikely, among others. The healer was claiming no recollection of the event in question and Fíli was left rather bemused to learn that he was the one who caught him when he inevitably stumbled. Considering that he had gone to bed at the same time as Kíli – not to mention that his depth perception was still wonky – the blonde Dwarf thought it was highly unlikely he had participated in such acrobatic endeavours, but the song’s version of events was quickly accepted as truth. Fíli gave in with good grace after Bofur had swept away his protests with the comment that ‘it looked good that the future King would save his drunken old cousin from a bashed in skull, ye ken?’ but the fact that Kíli did not rib his older brother about it at all added to the worry of his family.

 

* * *

 

 

Kíli had accepted Geira’s advice, though he had not yet found the courage to confront the new Scrollkeeper of Erebor. Instead, he had taken to watching Ori as often as possible, covertly at times, while engaging him in small chats at meal times. His own task – writing up names and families of the dead that were slowly unearthed by Dáin’s work-crews – was no longer taking up a lot of time, as most of the dead bodies had been removed from the most travelled areas already. They did not yet know how many were waiting behind collapsed tunnel entrances or down inaccessible mine shafts, but retrieving those who had perished in the deeper levels and the vast mining networks had to wait until those with the skill to determine the stone’s stability were done with more pressing tasks. There was no point sending people into unstable rock to retrieve corpses if they’d just end up becoming trapped or killed by rockfalls, Uncle Thorin had told him. Visiting the vast Library, however, was his favourite way of – Kíli didn’t want to admit he was spying – keeping an eye on Ori. If the scribe had not been so absorbed in reading whatever took his fancy, he might have noticed his shadow more often, but the contents of the Library held Ori spellbound. Dori usually had to fetch him for meals, when he lost track of time reading some dusty old saga or legend. Of course, he also did his best to help the King, gathering up all old treaties and such he could find, plans of the Mountain’s construction, the official copies of deeds of ownership concerning mining rights, houses, and whatever else he thought could be useful. When he was done with that, however, he devoured the old tales and sagas, telling himself that he needed to know what was _in_ the Library, in order to _sort_ the Library properly. To that end, he had recruited Master Baggins, who – while still novice at Khuzdul – at least read both Westron and Sindarin. The sheer volume of work to be done in the Library was staggering, but the two friends enjoyed the task of cataloguing the tomes that had survived the occupation. The Library held a surprising volume of texts in Elvish, even if most of them concerned topics of interests to Dwarrow, such as a scroll about the tensile strength of copper alloys, which had originally been penned by an Elf[264] in the late Second Age. The collections also contained a large number of scrolls and books of poetry, which surprised Bilbo more than he let on. Although the Company were fond of a song or a story by the night’s campfire, he had not realised that their tradition for telling stories and songs was so deeply rooted in their collective psyche.

 

* * *

 

Dori – she was tempted to add ‘as always’ to the thought – knew far more than her brothers gave her credit for. Just as she had seen through Nori’s new scheme with obvious ease, she was well aware that her youngest brother was mulling over something he did not yet want to admit to her. Spotting a poorly concealed Kíli behind a mostly undamaged bookshelf gave her a pretty good idea what was on the young Prince’s mind, and only confirmed her suspicions. Dori shook her head. Ori should know better by now than to think he could keep a secret like this from her. If it had been Nori, it might have been harder to realise exactly what he was hiding – Nori was used to acting opposite to his real interests, after all – but Ori had what both his siblings considered a ‘glass face’; even someone who didn’t know him as well as Dori could usually guess what he was thinking. The lad was incapable of lying convincingly, which had amused both Dori and Nori greatly over the years – if for vastly different reasons. Ori’s honest face was also the reason his siblings had decided against telling him what Nori did for a living – aside from being a Thief, that is. Grabbing Kíli by the shoulder, Dori dragged him into the light; deliberately oblivious to the scowl he sent her way – copied from his kingly Uncle, but far less effective on Kíli’s young face.

“Ori, Master Baggins!” she called, feeling amused at the way Kíli yanked himself out of her grasp, but inclined to allow the young Dwarf to escape her hold and keep his dignity. “It’s time for dinner! I sent Prince Kíli to fetch you half an hour ago, have you been ignoring him all this time?!” Dori had never considered herself a terribly good actress – that was Nori’s skill – but she managed to smother her smile at the hurried excuses bubbling forth from her younger brother. “I needs have a word with Master Baggins about the Trial,” she continued calmly, turning around and all but hauling the Hobbit along beside her. “Do ensure that his Highness makes it to dinner, Ori.” Leaving the Library, she allowed herself a smug smile, while feeling a little amused at the bewildered look on the Hobbit’s face as he trailing along beside her.

 

* * *

 

Ori’s cheeks felt hotter than the sun, and he sighed in relief when he realised that Kíli’s back was towards him, following Dori with his eyes. The Scribe frowned.

“What happened to your hair?!” he gasped, staring horrified at the back of Kíli’s head where the sable locks had been sheared unevenly, leaving the top layer far shorter than the rest of his shoulder length tresses.

“Err, what?” Kíli asked confused, reaching up to touch the shorter hair – he had mostly forgotten about it, aside from Fíli pointing it out when they were getting ready to march back into Erebor. His brother had braided the longer strands from the front of his head into the longest at the back, hiding the suddenly short locks skilfully, and no one else had noticed.

“Who attacked you?!” Ori was almost in tears at the thought that someone had dared hurt Kíli like this.

“…Bolg?” Kíli said, still feeling like he was missing the point. “You were there, Ori,” he continued calmly. Compared to the life of the Dwarf beside him, a handful of hair seemed a small price to pay, even though cutting hair was a serious thing to Dwarrow as a race and hacking off someone else’s was a grave offense.

“Bolg cut off your hair?” It was Ori’s turn to stare confusedly at Kíli, whose cheeks were glowing slightly – and he shouldn’t find that sight as pleasing as he did, Ori thought.

“No, I did,” Kíli felt a little sheepish at the way Ori’s eyes widened. “He was going to kill me, and then you attacked and he hit you with that mace, and, oh, Maker, Ori, I thought you _died_.” He was babbling, and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “I had a knife in my boot, like Nori showed us, so I got it out and when you,” Kíli swallowed the sudden lump in his throat, “when you hit the wall, I cut myself loose and stabbed Bolg in the arm… then I got my sword back, and… well, at some point Aunt Geira arrived, screaming things I didn’t understand, but Bolg went completely crazy on her. I passed out at one point, and when I came to again, Legolas was fighting Bolg, luring him away from us and Geira was bleeding badly. You were still unconscious, but when I had bandaged her, I managed to get you back to the healers.” Kíli blushed hard when he saw the look of admiration on Ori’s face, trailing off into slightly embarrassed silence.

“Thank you,” Ori said. In his chest, his heart fluttered. Steeling his resolve, he took a step towards the younger dwarf.

“Ah, I’d miss you if you weren’t around, Ori,” Kíli chuckled, smiling cheekily at the flustered scribe before turning towards the door of the Library. The kiss that was aimed at his cheek hit the corner of his mouth instead, and Kíli froze in surprise. Neither moved for several seconds, then one of Kíli’s crutches clattered against the stone floor, breaking the spell. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by the shorter Dwarf in front of him.

“Sorry!” Ori squeaked, suddenly terrified, before running out of the Library as though Azog and his warg-riders were on his heels. Kíli – not for the first time – cursed his missing leg and the Mahal-cursed crutches he was forced to move with; there was no way he’d catch up with Ori. Scowling at nothing in particular, Kíli made his way slowly towards the Food Hall – it was actually one of the larger Ball Rooms, Thorin had told them – which was the largest room connected to the kitchens that Dáin’s people had made usable under the stern hand of Maeassel. As he ‘walked’, Kíli considered the events of the afternoon and smiled to himself; for the first time since the battle, he felt genuinely hopeful that he could win the heart of the skittish scribe.

 

* * *

 

 

Nori watched the grey-faced elf stagger up the steps from the Singing Stones with pity he swiftly concealed as he stepped forward to catch the Prince’s attention.

“Evening, Master Elf,” he said quietly. In fact, it was the middle of the night, and Nori had been heading for his own bed when he spotted the elf. “You look a little ill.”

“The Stones are not fond of me, Master Nori,” Legolas gasped, trying to settle his nauseated stomach. He had tried to extend his visits in hopes of achieving some sort of resistance to the effects, but so far his results were non-existent. His Adar called it foolish stubbornness, but Legolas paid his words no mind. To him, it was the same as visiting the Healing Wards, though sitting by the sickbed of a recovering friend was never this taxing. The vibrations he could feel running through his bones were a constant hum, leaving his heart bruised with the thought that he was being defeated by a _stone_. Leaning against the carved wall, Legolas let the coolness of the green stone wash over his clammy skin. Nori nodded thoughtfully.

“I have seen you wander about during the night, Prince Legolas. You miss her.” The Master Thief’s tone gave nothing away, but the elf still flinched at whatever he thought the words implied. Tiredness and fatigue compelled honesty, however, and he replied with a weak nod, closing his eyes and letting the wall take his weight. “What do you hope for?” Nori continued, not unkindly, but curious.

“I just want her to wake up, Master Nori, nothing more.” Legolas didn’t much like the Dwarf with the ridiculous peaks in his hair, though he accepted that Nori was a valuable member of the Company. Legolas’s black jealousy at the easy way the Dwarf had danced with Rhonith had kept him from seeking out the Thief, even if he had found the red-head’s comments quite amusing during their evenings in Laketown. Nori had a knack for telling stories, and many tales to tell from his extensive travels. He also had a certain disregard for authority, and his sardonic commentary had left all of them chuckling more than once.

“You may be skilled in speaking around a topic, Princeling,” The Dwarf said, deceptively mild, as he idly played with the dagger that lived in his arm-guard, “but you do not fool me. You wish for far more than that, indeed,” watching the Elf’s eyes widen the same way Kíli’s would when he realised one of his pranks had been busted was very amusing, Nori found. “You want my sister to awaken, yes, but you also want her to remember you, want her to love you, want her to claim the heart you offer her every time she smiles at you.” Nori smirked. The Princeling was doing a passable impression of a landed trout. “Did you think yourself subtle?” In truth, he probably had – but Nori was _very_ good at what he did.

“I have no idea what you-“ Legolas began hotly, but Nori just interrupted him calmly, not even looking up from the task of cleaning his nails with his dagger. The denial died in his throat.

“Oh, I highly recommend you do not try to deceive me, Master Elf.” Glancing at the Elven Prince from beneath his lashes, Nori smirked to himself. He loved being right. “It is obvious in the way you looked at her – and the way you _avoided_ looking at her, if you get my point.”

“Does everyone know?!” Legolas exclaimed, feeling more than a little frustrated. His father looking at him with amusement over the topic was bad enough, but now a _Dwarf_ saw through him too – and not for the first time either, he thought, remembering the perceptive Lady Vrís.

“Personally, I think the better question is ‘Why in the name of Mahal’s left ball sack have you not done anything about it?’” Nori replied. Nori actually did want the answer to that; it hardly meshed with the personality of the Elf to do nothing when faced with a problem. Legolas gaped. Rhonith had told him of the directness of Dwarrow – a difference between her two kin she had often found amusing; Elves were fond of subtleties in all their doings – but this was direct indeed. He couldn’t help but wonder how – or possibly why – such an exclamatory had come into existence, but decided it was prudent not to ask.

“What would you have me do, Master Dwarf,” he scowled, “she has given me no sign that she returns my … affections.”

“And you’ve never asked… why?” Nori was rarely lost for words, but he thought this situation came close. _No sign, indeed._ He scoffed, though he carefully kept the snort of disbelief to himself.

“At first, I was afraid. Afraid that if I told her, she would not reciprocate my feeling and I might lose her friendship. As I thought about it, however, I decided that even if she _did_ love me, she would never stay with me.” Nori raised a questioning eyebrow at that, which made the elf flush slightly. “When I was a child, she would come to our Realm, and she would stay at Adar’s Court; sometimes for a year or more. As I grew older, however, she began to be around less, even if she still came often, her stays would last no more than a few months. For the past thousand years, Master Nori, it has been her way to show up roughly every twenty years, and remain in our Halls for less than a month each time, though I know she can linger for years in Lothlórien or Imladris. When Frís lived in Erebor, we saw her once a year, for at least a few days as she travelled to and fro, but since the dragon drove away her kin, Rhonith returned to her former schedule of visits spaced years apart. It seems clear, to me, that her heart does not lie in our forest... and I would not want her to stay with me out of obligation if she wanted to wander.” Legolas sighed. “I do not want to lose her friendship. If what I can have of her is no more than this, it shall have to be enough.”

“For a sharp-eyed Elf, you are remarkably blind,” Nori remarked thoughtfully. “She was quick enough to offer to join us, when she heard where we were going, and meeting you in the forest… she looked much lighter in your company than she had on the whole journey from the Misty Mountains. It may be friendship, it may be more,” personally he leaned _heavily_ towards more, but if the Elf could not see the ruby for all the garnets, Nori wouldn’t give away all her secrets. She probably had her reasons for keeping mum on the topic, after all, “but you will never know unless you dwarf up – or elf up, as the case may be – and ask her.”

“If even you – a total stranger – noticed how I felt, why does she not see it?” Legolas complained. “Why must I ask?” Nori chuckled at the Elf’s forlorn expression.

“Dwarrow are remarkably blind in matters of courtship,” he began, hiding his smile at Legolas’s suddenly hopeful expression. “Which is why our courtship rituals are so elaborate. Do you know how Dwarrow court, Legolas?” Nori easily dispensed with the title, now that he’d reached the topic he had actually wanted to talk about. Well, _wanted_ might be a little strong, but Nori _had_ been wondering why the Elf was behaving in such a daft way. Normally, he would have cared little about the love-life of any Elf, but he felt surprisingly protective of his new sister. Something about her was fragile, hidden deeply, but visible to those who took the time to look. It woke a curiously protective facet of his soul; he thought it was rather similar to the way he felt about Ori. Even if she never remembered that she was their sister, he felt he owed it to her to sort out her would-be suitor. He’d have done the same for Dori, after all, even if any Dwarf who’d come calling on Dori was probably going to go about the courtship far more sensibly than the Elf had so far. Legolas shook his head slowly. Somehow, Nori was not surprised. He almost wished he’d brought Dori along; she had a way of explaining traditions and rituals so even the most dim-witted of their kin could understand, but the Elf would just have to pay attention.

“So, you’re saying that I must court her like a Dwarf, rather than rely on Elven methods?” Nori could see the Elf struggle with that, though he didn’t know the difference. Surely, Elves too relied on showing their intended that they valued the individual and were able to provide them with a good life?

“I’m saying your Elven methods obviously haven’t done much for you. By all means, follow your own customs too, but if you try it our way, even the attempt would qualify as a reflection of your knowledge of her. It would be a way of showing her that you take both sides of her nature seriously. She may look like you, Legolas, but my sister has a very Dwarven heart. Even if she did not seem determined to ignore the way you stare at her, she would probably expect to be courted in the manner of her people. Her father managed, Ori even found a copy of the saga the Dwarrow of Khazad-dûm wrote about it; there’s no reason you should fail.” Nori idly wondered when he had turned into an authority on interspecies relationships, but Ori _did_ have a tendency to go on about thing he was excited to have found in the old records; some of it was bound to have stuck in Nori’s mind, even if he hadn’t been actively paying attention at the time.

“Wait, your sister?” Legolas boggled. How did she always end up with more siblings every time she met Dwarrow?!

“Dori claimed her as our sister when they fled Erebor. That makes her my sister. Pebbles – and young Dwarflings – are very particular about whom to trust, which I believe you are familiar with. If a pebble accepts someone not directly kin as family, it is usually accepted by the family as truth. After all, we are made from stone and the superstition claims that the stone in the pebble recognises the stone in the older dwarf; it is considered as good as a blood-claim or adoption. We are the adopted children of the All-Maker, and adoption is a serious matter to our race.” Nori explained. It didn’t matter that for most of his life, he had considered Dori’s stories of their Zarsthurunana little more than fairy tales. Seeing how the peredhel treated his siblings, both before and after she had recognised Dori as the small Dwarfling she had cared for in Mirkwood, the fond patience with which she greeted all of Ori’s many questions and even the way she had looked at himself, had made Nori add her to those he considered _his_ people. In a life filled with treachery and knives in dark corners, protecting the people you considered _yours_ was paramount – one of Radulf’s many lessons, which Nori had not at the time realised precisely what meant, but still a lesson he had done his best to follow. Radulf had probably never envisioned this type of scenario, but Nori had always been good at thinking on his feet.

“Very well, then, Master Nori. How do you court a Dwarf?” At the time, all his reasons for keeping his silence had seemed valid, but with the very real fear he had faced that she might never again be the same Rhonith he loved, they seemed like paltry excuses for cowardice. It was not a trait he had previously considered part of his personality, but hindsight was unbearable clear.

“You begin by offering a gift made with your own hands and representative of your Craft. They’re meant as a statement of interest and a gauge of your intended recipient’s feelings. Like Elves, we only marry once, and the rituals of courtship exist in order to avoid entering into a bad union. The First Gift doesn’t have to be something particularly expensive; what matters is the emotion and thought behind it.” Nori left out Dori’s long-winded story of Mahal’s courtship of _his_ wife, which had prefaced his own introduction to the subject as a younger Dwarf. It had been accompanied by a stern lecture on the creation of pebbles…which he did his best not to think about, though at least it had been _Dori_ and not their Amad who had given him that speech. With what he had believed of their parentage at the time, he would probably just have scoffed if Arnóra had tried to speak to him about dwarflings. It was something he had spent years coming to terms with after the truth was revealed to him; the unkind things he had thought about his Amad for the reputation she had so carefully crafted had filled him with great shame. Shaking his suddenly morose thoughts away, Nori continued swiftly, “Not a weapon, however, and the gifts are often considerably frivolous.”

“Like?” Legolas frowned – what did the Dwarf mean by his Craft? Thorin had claimed he was not a Craftsman, did he even have one?

“Well, my Craft is wire-weaving, so if I wanted to court someone, I might make a necklace with wire I had drawn out and shaped myself,” Nori shrugged, perhaps it wasn’t the best example. He had never actually considered courting anyone, after all. “Dori is a tailor and makes beautiful lace, so it would be obvious to make a courting gift of a fine garment the recipient might not obtain for themselves. Ori is a scribe, so for him it would be easy to make an illumination of some type, perhaps the intended’s favourite poem or song. What is important is that your gift reflects your knowledge of your intended.”

Legolas sighed, settling more comfortably against the wall. The darkness of the night – even with torches and a few lamps burning, Erebor was dark at night – lent something concealing to the quiet conversation; Legolas was reminded of the night in Laketown he had spent talking with Dwalin.

“You say I must make her a gift…” he began, haltingly. Nori saved him trying to formulate the question, however.

“How do you know what your craft is?” he asked. Legolas just nodded. “Well, I suppose you don’t have a Heart-Craft – being an Elf and all – so what are you good at?” Nori had to agree with his King’s assessment – the Elven Prince was not a Craftsman as they used the term, but that was not as important. It only mattered that the gift was created by his hands, it did not have to be a masterpiece. The initial gifts were used simply to convey interest, the sharing of stories and Family Songs meant far more in the overall scheme of things.

“Archery.” Legolas frowned; that hardly seemed a skill that lent itself easily to gift-making. “I make arrows, fletch the shafts… I sing – they tell me I have a fair mind and voice for it – though I rarely compose my own songs. I am a good dancer, and a fair hand at tending plants; especially blackberry brambles. I possess a little skill at tooling and mending leather, something all Guards of the Realm are capable of.” Somehow listing his skills in this manner made him seem utterly inept. Legolas scowled. Nothing stood out in his mind, though the Dwarf looked thoughtful. “Elves were not really meant to shape the world, but to observe and guide it,” Legolas sighed. “We leave much crafting to the select few who possess the predisposition.”

“Well, you claim to be able to work with wood, and leather. It’s a start.” Nori said, trying not to dishearten his pupil. “If you have skills with wood carving, why not make her something from wood? It isn’t a particularly Dwarven craft, true, but, well, you are not a Dwarf. Bifur would probably find you a knife if you haven’t got the tools. One thing Erebor is hardly short on is definitely tools of any kind,” the Thief laughed. Legolas looked a little cheered.

“You said a gift is the first step. What comes after that?” In all the stories of Dwarrow he had heard, Rhonith had never been particularly specific about the events of a courtship ritual – usually just throwing in a reference to a gift given or deed performed during the course of it. Nori’s approach was obviously far more practical.

“It’s tradition that your kin know you’re courting before anyone else, so you should invite her to spend a day in your home, meeting your family. I suppose you could skip going to the Halls, considering your family is in the Mountain already,” he added thoughtfully, “and then she’d reciprocate by introducing you to those who claim her kin as her intended. Currently, that’s myself, Dori, Ori, the Royal Durins – Dáin included – as well as Bilbo Baggins. Though the rest of the Company also consider her at least a cousin, there has been no formal claiming. After that, you’d let the rest of the Mountain know, being seen out together, holding hands and whatnot. You’d braid your beard differently, traditionally you split the chin braid in two that join each other further down… I suppose your hair will have to do.” Looking up, Nori was startled to see the Elf blushing. Catching on quickly, he grinned. “I suppose to Elves that’d be quite a declaration?” Legolas just nodded; the blush was a long time receding. “Well, you should skip that, I guess, it’s not a hard and fast rule. You’d share your family’s Songs with each other, tell stories of the ancestors in your Line. It’s important to know where the other comes from, after all.”

“I did that! For her birthday once,” he paused, counting, “oh, almost two thousand years ago.” The number startled him; had he wanted her even then? Too young for love at the time, but he’d certainly always coveted her attention and approval. “I sung her a song about the Dwarrow of Moria. She was angry with me for weeks after that. Apparently, she considered my performance patronising, though I never understood why.” Legolas frowned at the memory. He had liked the song, had thought it quite good, filled with fire and jewels and a winding story of betrayal and assassins. He had found it in the Imladris library, and persuaded the minstrel Lindir to teach him – the parchment had been illuminated with a golden-haired Dwarf, decked in battle gear, which was how it had caught his eye. Rhonith’s displeasure had stung his pride, and he couldn’t remember ever singing for her afterwards. Singing in camp, yes, they had done that, or joining songs at feasts, but he did not think he had sung anything specifically for her since.

“So? If you pick a story she doesn’t like, you get to argue about it.” Nori felt certain he was missing the Elf’s point – or Legolas was missing his. “Arguing is a time-honoured tradition among Dwarrow and should be included in any worthwhile courtship. Our tempers run hot, and debates can get heated, but you should never shy away from arguing with a Dwarf. We have no respect for such timidity. Elves may like to wander around their differences, but Dwarrow like arguing our points. Gets the blood pumping.” That point clearly had not occurred to the Elf before, Nori could see, and the blush that turned his ears red like ripe cherries made the Dwarf wonder at his apparent innocence. He quickly abandoned that thought. There was _no_ way he was going to be talking about…intimate relations… with a bloody _Elf_ of all things! Not for the first time, he wished for Dori’s presence. His sister was far less squeamish about such topics, he had to admit – the butcher’s next door in Ered Luin, whose wife had died giving birth to his daughter, had actually _paid_ Dori a good-sized ham to speak to his daughter about matters of love and marriage. “It’s not unheard of for Dwarrow to reach this stage without realising they’re being courted, by the way, which can be slightly awkward. After that there’s the actual betrothal, which is marked by exchanging another gift. You don’t have to make this, but it should be something grand, especially as you’re a Prince and she’s a Princess.”

“I did not think you considered her a Princess? The way Rhonith tells the story, her mother took her out of the line of succession.” Legolas frowned. Did that mean he would need Thorin’s permission for this effort at wooing his oblivious Noldo?

“In Khuzdul she is considered Uzbadnatha, Lord’s daughter, which is the same as a princess. If she were a Queen in her own right, she’d be called Uzbad. We do not distinguish between the genders of our rulers. She may not be in the line for the throne, but she is still the daughter of a Lord – and a Princess.” Nori nodded. “That does not mean you need the King’s permission to marry. We hold that the only permission you need for a marriage is the consent of both parties. Furthermore, she’d probably skin anyone trying to decide for her…” Nori almost wanted to see someone try; the entertainment value alone… he smirked.

“I thank you, friend Nori,” Legolas managed, slightly unnerved by the Dwarf’s expression of unholy glee at the thought of Rhonith skinning anyone…though he had to admit she was a thing of fierce beauty when properly riled. He had seldom seen her truly angry, but he had always been decidedly pleased not to be the target of her sharp-tongued ire. “You have given me much to ponder. I bid you goodnight.” As he walked away from the Dwarf who had so vexed him at Lothig’s Life-Celebration, he couldn’t help but feel a little shamed at the dark thoughts he had harboured then about Lord Nori. The Dwarf was a far better friend than he had thought at the time… possibly.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin bellowed angrily at the forge fire, as yet another practice attempt failed due to the piece moving unexpectedly. Scowling at the metal on his anvil, the King of Erebor wanted to weep. It had been a foolish idea, but somehow it had stuck in his head that the first step in mending his heart was to repair the damage he had caused to Keeper. The axes – the best he had ever made – had been one of his courting gifts, and aside from the **‘athu bass** the most important. The axes had saved Dwalin’s life more times than he liked to think about, and somehow it had always felt as though his Kurdel carried a small bit of his soul into battle when he wielded the set. Punching the stone wall did not make him feel better, and with a sigh, Thorin set to righting the small workshop he had appropriated for his attempts. When he was done, the King once more donned his tunic, and made his way down towards the deepest parts of the Mountain. He had been intending to seek his bed – it was cold and lonely, but he did need whatever sleep would find him – but a sudden idea made him veer off course until he reached the deep cave of the Singing Stones. The late hour meant the place was entirely deserted, as even the Elves were asleep, and with a sigh, Thorin sank down beside the stone that held his aunt. Mentally, he added a reminder to get Dori to look up the ritual needed to make his claim official; even if he had introduced her as his aunt by tradition to Dáin and his nobles, he wanted to give her – and his Amad’s memory – some sort of recognition of their bond.

 _It is kind of you to worry about me, Uzbad._ A voice said. Thorin stiffened.

“So it is true,” he breathed. “Those who are in the Stones can speak to those who are not.”

 _Hello, Uzbad Thorin,_ Geira replied.

“You remember me?”

 _You came to see me, in Maicano’s tent,_ she said gently. _In her memories, I have seen you stand against a pale Orc, but no, I do not truly remember it… not yet._

“Her? Who is she?” Thorin felt confused, but this puzzle was at least a break from his own worries.

 _She is me. The ‘me’ you know._ Suddenly he realised that their whole conversation had been in Khuzdul. _She is here, but asleep, I think, that is what it feels like, at least. Letting me wander through her dreams, her memories. I feel as she felt, see as she saw, though it is separate from the myself that is watching, like watching a reflection in a mirror or seeing through a piece of clear glass…The Maker told us we would be whole again; mind and spirit and body, but it takes time._ He had a sudden vision of a younger version of the peredhel he knew, dancing with a dark-haired Elf he realised was her father.

“What was that?” Thorin blinked, the green walls of Erebor coming back into focus.

 _A memory of my Adad,_ the same voice answered, but somehow Thorin knew that the speaker was now several thousand years older. The notion was disconcerting. _A memory of happiness. I was dreaming of the final days of Khazad-dûm, I think. Young Geira did not like to see her kin – Durin VI looked most like her Uncle – felled by shadow and flame. I had forgotten the look on his face when he knew all was lost; when he told me to take my Thorin and run. I forgot how the young Prince cried for his golden-haired father, how Nain fell beside his mother, trusting me to take his son away to safety. Thorin wanted to fight beside his Adad… He was very angry with me for a long time, but I do not give my oaths lightly, Thorin Uzbad. I had sworn to save the Heir of Durin’s Line, to help him become the King he was meant to be… and I did._ She did not speak again for some time, but Thorin felt no desire to leave the Stones. _Do you remember that song I sang on our way to Mirkwood?_ Geira’s voice interrupted his thoughts suddenly. _Oh, ro, soon I shall see them,_ she sang quietly, slowing the melody until it was a lullaby instead of a walking song.

“I dreamed of it, at Beorn’s,” Thorin admitted hoarsely. “You made it a lullaby for me, a reminder of our lost home. You used to sing it when I was scared, when I did not feel like I could do what I had to for our people.” It was easier to speak of Thorin I as himself, though he knew they were separate people. He felt a certain kinship with his long-ago ancestor, the bond of common struggles, even if all Thorin I’s troubles had not all been visited upon his head. “I saw you through his memories… though only in that first meeting did you look like you… in other memories I have had over the years, the one Thorin called Auntie Sharul was a Dwarf.”

_Memories are funny things, Uzbad Thorin… they are always coloured by those who make them… and often by those who watch. You are not the first of the **Khuzd Haga Zudur**[265] to know me twice. Some of my kin remember me truthfully, as all that I am, but my kundanud… my Thorin always thought of me as a Dwarf. He was…special to me. I am not surprised that in the memories you have watched, you saw a Dwarf in my place, for I lived as a Dwarf with Thorin and his family for most of his life. He was very brave, remarkably devoted. He did not care what it cost him to provide for his people, and the cost was great indeed…_

Thorin felt no need to fill the silence that followed her words. He knew what had happened, after all; the story was legend, part of his family’s heritage. The First Wife, Queen Eirný, had borne her husband the requisite heir and ruled as Queen until she died of old age, beloved by their people for her kind heart. Eirný’s son Thráin had become King after his father, while Thorin’s One – and mistress – Embla’s three children were considered illegitimate though they had been given titles and made part of the nobility. Embla – less concerned with the rule of a people but surprisingly ambitious in her own way – became the unofficial Queen of the Court intrigue; a power in her own right until her early demise, poisoned by an unknown assassin. Thorin had never understood how Queen Eirný had managed to take in her husband’s children by another, but it was clear in his Memories as well as the records that had survived from that time that she had loved all four of Thorin I’s children greatly. Even if Embla had hated Eirný with a burning passion born of her deep jealousy, none of Thráin’s siblings had opposed his rule; in fact, the three had been his greatest allies in keeping his still-tenuous hold of the throne. Especially his little sister Eydís – third of Embla’s children and a dead ringer for Thorin’s own sister Dís as far as personality went – had been instrumental in ensuring a lasting peace in the new settlement in Ered Mithrim through her marriage. Thorin had looked up the story the first time he had had a Memory come to him in dreams – getting married to a beautiful lady who had clearly been crying not long before and feeling like the vows they were making were prison bars locking tight around him had made him cry out for his Amad. He had been no more than twenty at the time, and, at first, he had thought it was a premonition. Frís had helped him search the annals of Ered Mithrim – some stories had been rewritten after Thrór had resettled in Erebor, while others had survived the destruction – until they realised that it was a vision of the past, rather than the future. Thorin still remembered the relief he had felt. He had not yet been ready to admit – even to himself – that his heart was already given away, but the abject fear the dream had inspired had been hard to shake.

 

* * *

 

 

“It was kindly done of you, Dauchir,” Nurtalëon intoned solemnly, as he slipped out of the shadows where he had been listening to the conversation to walk alongside Nori back to the upper levels of Erebor. He had been worried by the grey tinge to Legolas’s skin when he finally made to leave the Stones, and followed the Prince up the stairs in case he should pass out again. Even Elves could die of a broken neck. “Aiwë has chosen her siblings well, I see.”

“I think it was Dori’s choice, mostly,” Nori smirked. The Vanyaro nodded.

“Yes, Lady Dori is a most formidable dwarrowdam. She reminds me a little of Narví, at times.” He added wryly. “We called her Lady Fire-Heart, and I always thought it suited her perfectly.”

“Should I have told him of the Longing? Explained what we mean by our Ones?” Nori wondered.

“No, I do not think he would understand,” Nurtalëon admitted. “Even I, arguably the one who knows your people best among the Eldar do not quite understand it. I think it is Aiwë’s secret to tell, if she wants him to know.” With that, he nodded once to the Spymaster of Erebor, before making his way down to the makeshift pen that held his horse. He was happy to see the animal well-fed; having arranged for a farmer from Laketown to ship some hay and such fodder to Erebor, Nurtalëon had mostly left his mount to her own devices, but Súletári was capable of taking care of herself to a greater degree than the horses kept by mortal Men.

 

* * *

 

 

On the cusp of dreams, he heard her once more, softly singing,

_Oh ro soon shall I see them;_ __  
_Oh he ro see them oh see them._ __  
_Oh ro soon shall I see them the_ __  
_mist covered mountains of home._ __  
__  
_There shall I visit the place of my birth_ __  
_And they'll give me a welcome the warmest on earth_ __  
_All so loving and kind, full of music and mirth,_ __  
_In the sweet sounding language of home._ __  
_Oh ro soon shall I see them;_ __  
_Oh he ro see them oh see them._ __  
_Oh ro soon shall I see them the_ _  
_ _mist covered mountains of home._

 

Thorin slept.

 

* * *

###### notes:

[263] Follower – short for Shumrozbid-ugjaj, leadership-follower, which I’ve used to mean assistant commander.

[264] I-tû nordh rustui. The Physical Strength of Copper Cord.

[265] Very Important Dwarf – those who have memories of previous lives, although they are not reborn, like Durin, simply carrying echoes of Dwarrow who have gone to the Halls of Waiting, but who still have lessons or guidance to offer the Dwarven race. Such dwarrow are usually named after the one whose memories they bear. Thorin carries echoes of Thorin I, who resettled the dwarrow in the Grey Mountains after the fall of Khazad-dûm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're on the home-stretch, people!  
> As in, I'm beginning to see an end to this massive project. Would it surprise anyone to learn that it was originally planned to be about 10 chapters and ~50k words?  
> Hopefully you've enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it ^^


	47. Smiles and Threats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kíli comes clean, Ori confesses, and Legolas receives a warning.

Trying to make the Mountain fit for habitation again would be a very long project, Bombur thought, bent over the blueprints and schematics he had been drawing up with the aid of some of Dáin’s engineers. Considering that they had been drawn by dwarrow who were usually only working on ballistics engineering and with himself having worked mostly as a cook even though he had trained for this task exactly, Bombur felt reasonably confident that their new design for the Gallery of Kings would meet with Thorin’s approval. Of course, the statues that Smaug had smashed along with the wall would have to be recreated, but luckily that was not within Bombur’s immediate concerns. The system of support beams he had rigged up with Dori’s and Bofur’s help in those first days were a stop-gap measure at best, and this work – even if it would need to be made more beautiful when those with the proper talents arrived – would soon replace it. Looking over the plans once more, Bombur gave it a final nod of approval. With what they had to work with, this was the best they could do, Master Algerd agreed, and promptly set off to find or conscript a crew of builders. Bombur himself turned his attention once more to the task of making the Lower Commons – all houses here had been destroyed in the initial attack on Erebor – a suitable place to house the returning Dwarrow of Ered Luin. Ori had been busy writing up lists of those who had owned houses there, as very little but rubble remained, and all family crests or other symbols of ownership turned to dust. In the Library, which was in surprisingly good condition considering it had been left to the mercy of whatever rodents and bugs found their way inside, Ori had managed to unearth many of the records that detailed deeds and titles within the Mountain.

Many of the noble houses surrounding the actual palace itself had also been structurally damaged; Bombur thought it was a result of Smaug trying to ferret out the treasures hid inside – a task the dragon had seemingly abandoned suddenly, probably after digging himself out from under the rubble of the only completely destroyed house.

Balin and Dwalin had found their old home intact for the most part, and the brothers had officially moved in shortly after the battle. Bombur had chosen a large house for himself, not too far from Balin’s, in fact, large enough to accommodate all the children, as well as spare rooms for Bofur and Bifur. He didn’t know if his brother and cousin would choose to live separately, but he reckoned that living in the reclaimed Erebor was a big enough change for his family; if the two bachelors wanted more space later on, there were buildings enough to choose from. He hadn’t actually discussed arrangements with Bifur or Bofur, but it did not surprise him to wake up one morning and walk into his cousin coming out of the room he had chosen for him.

 

* * *

 

“So, when do we plan the weddin’?” Dáin asked, as he caught up to Thorin on his early morning walk along the Main Market of Erebor. Plenty of Dáin’s soldiers were occupied here, removing rubble and trying to make sure that the stone that was left standing was structurally sound. Main Market had become the purview of apprentices and people roped in from other trades, since Bombur – in his new office as Lord Architect – had taken off the most experienced stonemasons and engineers to salvage the Gallery of Kings. They had broken the giant mould in the battle with Smaug, of course, and recreating it from the shattered pieces would be nigh impossible and rather a waste of time and effort. Instead, they would set up a life-size statue of Thrór that had been made years before Smaug's attack, but Thorin found the memory of watching the dragon flail about in the molten gold so appealing that he wanted to keep the physical memento of the gilded floor tiles. Even though most agreed that the golden floor was beautiful, Thorin had demanded that it be pulled off and melted down. The Dragon’s blood had mixed with the gold as it set, and Thorin would ensure that every last reminder of the Dragon was removed from his mountain. The Wizard had pronounced the Treasury free of the taint of Smaug’s magic, though Thorin still felt wary of going in there. He could only think it a product of his own madness and Smaug’s will to survive that he had allowed Kíli to attempt to cure dragonhide. The skins – smelling foul and looking worse – had been removed from the tanner’s workshop Kíli had found, and been tossed on a pyre. He had allowed the Company to keep a single tooth each – the one in Orcrist proved that the teeth could be made into useful weapons at least, but they were carefully stowed in a locked room and the key hung around Nori’s neck. It had been so long since their people had killed a dragon that no one quite knew how to work the material either way, but Thorin had already decided to ask Geira whenever she was released from the Stones. Even if she did not know how to do it herself, she might know of an Elf somewhere who did, he reckoned. Though Ori had added dragon’s teeth to the topics he would comb through the library for information on, Thorin had given the matter low priority: any scrolls or tomes likely to contain the information he sought were most likely buried in the Mazalufahn of Khazad-dûm.

“What wedding?” Interrupted in the middle of planning how he would recreate the golden flooring – a fitting tribute to Thrór, if ever there was one, rather than the giant statue – Thorin snapped at his cousin.

“Your wedding, cousin?” Dáin asked, blithely ignoring Thorin’s splutter at the thought. “Bou’ time ye star’, if’n ye ask me. Half the Hills’ll want invite’, even if ye wer’t’ marryin a son o Iron,” Dáin huffed. When he got agitated, Dáin’s accent – already quite pronounced – tended to grow even more gravelly, a trait Dwalin shared. Thorin always assumed it was something they’d picked up from their mothers. As twins, Sigrún and Rádveig, Dáin’s Amad, had had many of the same mannerisms, which they had passed to their sons. He managed to hide the wince the thought brought forth; he had always loved Dwalin’s accent, the growly words seeming to turn his bones to liquid faster than anything else. “I know you’ll want Dís here, bu’ she shoul’be arrivin’n early spring. That gives you only three months to plan a coronation as well as a royal wedding, you know! You ARE marrying, no?” Dáin asked, piercing Thorin with a gimlet stare when he felt the King was too slow in answering.

“Dori is handling the **ajzânu iklêm**[266], and considering that my One is barely speaking to me these days, Dáin, I don’t think you have to worry over a wedding. Now leave me be!” Thorin snapped, before hurrying away, grumbling under his breath about interfering busybodies. His breath caught in his chest when he came across Dwalin in deep conversation with Captain Bronwe’s eldest son, whose patrols had been chasing down reported Orc sightings since the battle. The King hid behind a pillar, feeling his heart break at the openly engaged look on Dwalin’s tired face. Whenever he saw his One lately, Dwalin was closed off, like a house with its windows hidden behind shutters. He scowled at the Elf who was free to talk to _his_ One. It had no effect. Thorin told himself sternly that he was too old to be following after his One like a lost duckling, but if one of Dáin’s chief engineers hadn’t caught up at that moment with a question about the cost-projection for the restorations of the Upper Commons, he would have followed Dwalin’s bald head down the corridor. Turning his full attention back to lists and tables, Thorin tried to banish all the memories of Dwalin’s soft smile that plagued him, in favour of returning Erebor to her former glory.

 

* * *

 

 

It was lunchtime when Fíli found his brother sitting at the long table with a rather dreamy smile on his face. Compared to his previous moods, the smile seemed an obvious improvement, but Fíli approached with some trepidation.

Catching sight of his older brother, Kíli smiled widely. Sleeping on the events of the previous afternoon, he felt better than he had since the battle. Even the crutches didn’t bother his sunny outlook today.

“Hello, nadad,” Fíli said cautiously, taking a seat next to the younger dwarf. Kíli pushed a platter of sausages closer to him.

“Try the khufshkarâl, Fíli. Dáin told me it’s a Grey Mountain speciality; they’re quite tasty with some of Bombur’s tater-cakes.” Kíli exclaimed happily, biting into one of the spicy sausages with relish.

“Are you… feeling alright, Kíli?” Fíli frowned, adding sausages to his plate.

“I’m glorious, brother,” the archer replied, around the mouthful of food. “Ori kissed me yesterday.” The latter sentence, garbled by the amount of food Kíli had stuffed into his mouth, went completely over Fíli’s head. The Crown Prince was staring at his younger brother with obvious concern.

“What? Ri’ risse you etheray?” Fíli’s concern was growing rapidly, his mind rapidly creating and discarding ideas for how to get Óin to examine Kíli without the archer’s knowledge. Kíli frowned at the look on his brother’s face. Holding up a hand, he swallowed his food before repeating his announcement.

“No, I said: Ori kissed me yesterday.” His smile faltered slightly when Fíli failed to be as excited about that as he was.

“A kiss is why you’re practically bouncing in your seat?” Kíli nodded happily, wolfing down another sausage with a wide grin. Fíli felt worried, frowning thoughtfully. While he preferred his brother happy, this sudden turnaround felt more than a little odd. It wasn’t like it was Kíli’s _first_ kiss…right?

 

* * *

 

“Kíli has something to tell you, Uncle,” Fíli announced as he dragged his brother into the King’s study, interrupting Thorin’s moping. Balin had taken off with Dáin to prepare for the Trial to be held in the morning, leaving the King a rare moment to himself. Thorin was probably supposed to be doing something productive, but Fíli could see the dark circles his sleepless nights had painted around his blue eyes and wisely refrained from pointing out the way the King had been staring into thin air.

“Are we finally to learn why you have been worrying us all with your morose face, Kíli?” Thorin asked mildly, targeting his fidgeting nephew with his solid blue gaze.

“Err.. yes?” Kíli asked, feeling like he was a young dwarfling caught in an errand of mischief. He nodded, blushing to the roots of his hair; Thorin had looked at him with that exact face until he admitted to hiding a kitten he’d found in Amad’s root cellar. It had not been a good plan; the kitten had destroyed several sacks of barley grain and knocked over a whole shelf of preserves.

Thorin didn’t reply, simply motioning his nephews to take a seat. Fíli had to cover his chuckle when Kíli threw himself into the armchair, thrusting his crutches away with a moue of distaste.

“Well?” Thorin asked, when Kíli seemed lost for words.

“ErrIfoundmyOneinbattleandit’sOriandhekissedme!” Kíli blurted. The redness in his cheeks intensified. Only long experience with Kíli’s tendency to force words out in a long string without pause when he felt under pressure allowed Thorin to contain his mirth.

“Repeat that, nephew, slowly.” The King chuckled lightly. Kíli groaned. Beside him, Fíli was having great difficulty holding in his own guffaws.

“Uhm… Ori is my One. And he kissed me!” Kíli nearly shouted. “Though I think that was an accident,” he frowned. Fíli lost his composure at that point and even Thorin cracked more than a smile, his own troubles banished to a far corner of his mind.

“Are you sure, Kíli?” he asked, his face and voice taking on a more serious demeanour. “I did not think you were among the Balkhur[267]?” Kíli nodded slowly.

“Geira said it was Battle-Forged,” he mumbled quietly. “I asked her how I could be sure. I am sure.”

“Very well,” Thorin smiled, “have you spoken to the lad?” Kíli slowly shook his head, making Fíli erupt once more in gales of laughter. Thorin frowned at his heir until the older brother subsided.

“This is a serious thing, Fíli, you shouldn’t mock your brother for being confused.”

“Sorry Uncle,” Fíli said, chastised, “it’s just, we’ve all been so worried, and now he tells us it was the Longing… I’m relieved.” Hugging his little brother with one arm, Fíli smiled hugely. “And the fact that it’s Ori… is just a little funny,” he chuckled. “We’ve been travelling with him for more than half a year, and neither of them have shown signs until now I think.”

“I haven’t spoken to Ori about the Longing,” Kíli admitted, slightly sheepish. “I wanted to… but he sorta derailed me by asking about my hair! And then he kissed me… and ran away,” he frowned. Thorin felt hard pressed not to give in to his own laughter at the look of dismayed confusion on Kíli’s features.

“I suggest you take the time to get to know Ori as your potential love before you speak of the Longing, Kíli,” he cautioned. Mahal knew the wee scribe was skittish at best; Thorin felt quite sure that Kíli’s usual exuberance, and his marked tendency to let his feelings burst out of his mouth in a great rush of words was more likely to hinder than help. “Furthermore, you cannot officially begin courting until Dís arrives.” Thorin held up a hand to stall the mutinous protests of both his nephews at that edict. “No, Kíli, I won’t budge on this. Going against your Amad when it comes to something this important is more than my life’s worth. I’m sorry, but I won’t allow it. You’ll need at least that long to work on your first gift, anyway, I wager, but I want you to introduce Ori to your mother _before_ you give it to him.”

“Amad already knows Ori,” Fíli pointed out, but Thorin shook his head.

“Aye, as Balin’s apprentice, and as one of the potential candidates for the post of Uzugbad when he retires… _not_ as a potential member of her family.” Pulling the scowling Kíli into a firm hug, Thorin pressed his forehead against the young dwarf’s. “I’m not saying you cannot spend time with him, Kíli; only do not make any official overtures… It is only a few months, irakdashat, and I promise I will be on your side if Dís brews up a storm,” they all shuddered at that thought; Dís’s temper was as volatile as her brother’s, though she lacked his tendency to brood; if Dís was angry, _everyone_ knew. Thorin knew she would already be poised to be livid with all of them upon arriving in Erebor. She’d be furious that her boys had been permanently maimed, she’d be absolutely incensed at the mess he had created with Dwalin, and Thorin was expecting a long lecture on the combined topic of madness, diplomacy, and war, not to mention sermons on neighbourly conduct. She would never stand in the way of her son courting his One, Thorin knew, but she _would_ demand to be there for every step of the process, and he did not think even Kíli’s boyish charm could sway his little sister from righteous maternal outrage if she learned he had begun courting someone without introducing them to her first. “Spend the months until then planning what you want to make and what you may need to order,” was Thorin’s final bit of advice, “and congratulations, Kíli. I’m happy for you.” Neither nephew mentioned the way his smile turned wistful as he couldn’t help but turn his head slightly to catch the reaction of Dwalin-who-should-have-been-there.

 

* * *

 

 

When a knock came on his study door in late afternoon, Thorin was not really surprised to see the short form of Ori making his way into the room. The new Scrollkeeper’s hands were twisted in his sleeves and he looked almost paralyzed with fear. Thorin felt quite proud that the young Dwarf had come far enough to dare stand before him like this. The Ori he had met in Ered Luin had not inspired great faith in his skills, and Balin had had to work hard to convince him to bring the lad along – it was telling, he thought, that he referred to Ori as a lad still, when he was more than twenty years older than Kíli – but Thorin was glad he had accepted the word of his old advisor. Ori had proved himself more than the rather naïve youngster he had seemed at first, and Thorin couldn’t help but think that Natfári would have been proud of his youngest child’s fierce heart.

“What brings you here, Ori?” he prompted, after the young dwarf had been fidgeting just inside the doorway for several minutes.

“Uhm, I…” Ori began haltingly, but Thorin was content to wait. “I-I have something to tell you, your Majesty.” Thorin’s nod seemed to galvanize Ori’s resolve, and the younger dwarf continued confidently. “I believe I have discovered the One whose soul sings with mine,” he said, the ceremonial phrase Dori had once taught him flowing easily from his lips. Ori bowed.

Thorin did not let his amusement at the formal words show, replying with the gravity young Ori’s announcement warranted. “Mahal guide you in your endeavours to win the heart of your One,” he said solemnly. He had half expected Ori to show up; the scribe was technically an orphan, and though Dori was the Head of his Family, traditionally the King was considered the guardian of any orphan not claimed by an adoptive parent.

“Thank you, my King,” Ori gasped, releasing a breath Thorin had not realised the lad had been holding. With another bow, Ori turned to leave, but Thorin called him back.

“Does your One have a name, lad?” he asked, feeling his amusement crinkle the corners of his eyes. Ori sank into the chair Thorin gestured at, occupying the same seat that had held Kíli only hours before.

“Uhm, yes… but I’m not sure he knows about it,” Ori admitted awkwardly. “He is young, yet, too young to know for sure, Dori would say.”

“But you have known for some time?” Thorin asked, wondering at the differences among those he had seen finding their Ones. Dís had known before Víli had even spoken a word to her, while he had tried to convince himself that Dwalin deserved better than a One who could not openly claim him. Obviously, Kíli had felt nothing up until the recent battle – he’d remember to thank Aunt Geira for sorting out the lad when she woke – but Ori was nodding sheepishly.

“Not-not that long,” he whispered, shyly looking at the floor. “I didn’t realise at first, you see, I didn’t think I had a One… but if I think about it, I noticed the first stirrings when we were at Beorn’s.” Thorin nodded calmly; that fit to his mind, Kíli’s Nameday had come and gone while they had been running from Goblins and Orcs, and most of the old wives’ tales about finding your One stated that it was often connected with Namedays and other important dates in a Dwarf’s life. As Balin’s fate proved, it didn’t really have to do with the age of the Dwarrow involved, but somehow the timing still influenced the whole process. Thorin didn’t much care for the esoteric reasoning of those philosophers who tried to figure out how the phenomena of the Balkhur came to, content to consider it a purview of the Maker, and leave it at that. “It’s Kíli – Prince Kíli,” Ori hastily clarified, shooting an apprehensive glance at Thorin, who simply nodded. The slight gesture instantly removed all the tension and apprehension from the young scribe, who slumped in his seat.

“Ori, have you had the pleasure of making my sister’s acquaintance?” Suddenly looking worried, the young dwarf jumped in his seat, staring at Thorin as he tried to puzzle out what the phrasing meant. “I think she would want to meet you,” Thorin continued, “and as I have told my nephew, his Amad would be most put out if she was not allowed to meet the Dwarf who would court her son – before he began the courtship.” Giving Ori a gimlet stare, the one Kíli had once dubbed his ‘we are agreed on this, OR ELSE’-stare, Thorin smiled benevolently when Ori nodded, a small squeak escaping his new Scrollkeeper. “Do not look so terrified, Ori,” Thorin chuckled, “I am hardly about to throw you into the dungeons for coming to me with this.”

“You…you don’t,” Ori paused, gathering his courage, “disapprove?” Thorin frowned at the question.

“Is there a reason I should?” he asked, wondering what was on the lad’s mind and coming up with no reason for Ori to seem on edge.

“Kíli is a Prince of Durin’s Folk,” Ori said slowly, as though his point was obvious to anyone with a brain.

“Ori,” Thorin sighed, finally realising what Ori was trying to tell him without actually saying the words. “Prince-Consort Víli, my sister’s husband and the adad of the Princes, was a miner all his life. My own Amad was the daughter of a common blacksmith who worked his way to the post of guild-master and the daughter of minor Orocarni nobility. I wouldn’t care if you were a thief like Nori, a miner like Bofur, or a diplomat like Balin, and neither would Dís. All we have ever wanted for the lads is for them to find happiness with whomever they chose when the time came.”

“But I don’t… I am a mother’s son,” Ori said sheepishly. “Though I am not ashamed of it, I know some would look down on my courting a prince.”

“I suggest you speak with your siblings about that, but rest assured that I knew the dwarf who sired you, and though he died before you were born, he was a good dwarf, someone I called friend. I would have been pleased to call him kin. As for anyone thinking you are aiming too far above yourself, you are a noble Lord of Erebor, and one of the richest Dwarrow in this Kingdom… You are one of the Companions, Ori. Your name will be legend soon enough and you’ve got another hundred and fifty or so years at least to build your legacy.” Thorin replied. “Speaking of that, would you find Dori for me, I need to discuss the plans for the Igshishmerafrân[268]. It’ll have to be after the Trial, of course, but we should have it as soon as possible. I want the new Lords of Erebor to stand with me to greet their returning Princess.”

With another hasty bow, Ori made to escape the study. Thorin chuckled softly, watching him go.

 

* * *

 

“He isn’t sleeping.” To anyone else, it might have been an odd greeting, but Thorin just nodded. “The dreams have returned. He needs you.” Balin continued, his calm tone belying his inner turmoil. Dwalin’s lack of rest was taking it obvious toll on his body as well as his mind. It seemed the only place the warrior found peace was among the Singing Stones where Balin had found him more than once, sleeping peacefully against Geira’s Stone.

“He won’t speak to me, won’t let me anywhere near him,” Thorin replied mournfully. “I cannot watch him do this much longer, Balin, but I fear that if I do something drastic I will only drive my heart further away.”

The white-haired dwarf had nothing constructive to add, and his attention returned to his dinner. With an unhappy noise, Thorin joined him. Dwalin was nowhere to be seen, and the King felt uneasy; he wanted to share the happy news of his day with Dwalin, wanted to watch him smile and pat Kíli on the back. Instead, his eyes found the small form of Master Baggins, who was deep in conversation with Bofur; something that involved a lot of impatient gesturing and grinning. Thorin smiled to see it. They had all laughed too little in the past few months, ever since leaving Thranduil’s Halls, in fact, and he was pleased to see lightness return to the hearts of his Companions.

 

Once more, Legolas staggered up from the depths, desperate to get as far away from the hum of the Stones as his legs would take him before they gave out. Collapsing on a bench he had not noticed during last night’s chat with Nori, he hid his face in his hands and tried to breathe slowly.

“You are not a Dwarf; you are an Elf, of a long line of Elves. I do not think there is a way to make you Dwarf enough for the Stones to stop hurting you. You should not consider that a failing, Prince Legolas,” Nurtalëon’s quiet voice startled the grey-faced ellon. “Aiwë would not wish for you to make yourself sick for the sake of your own pride.”

“But you can stay down there for hours, why can’t I?” Nurtalëon almost laughed at the note of petulance that snuck into Legolas’s genuine curiosity, but he curtailed the impulse.

 “Because I am an ‘ **Ushmar** as well as a _Vanyaro_. I am what the Dwarrow call ‘He who continues to protect’, and that… is not something you should desire.” The Noldo shook his head gently at Legolas’s questioning look. “The Vanyaro are an order of Guards, and to those who are not informed… that is all that we are. For those we protect, however… it is a bond of old magic, Legolas, forged with blood and soul and pain. My own Adar was Vanyaro for Celebrimbor, and died to protect him from the wrath his father and uncles unleashed after he denounced them, refusing to take the Oath of Fëanor. I grew up in the home of Telperinquar, and my Naneth served as Loremistress there.” The dark-haired elleth had been their Lord’s greatest support, and she had perished in the war with Sauron that claimed Legolas’s own Taennaneth, Gliwen. “When Narví told us she was with child, our joy was mingled with fear, for those days were not safe for a child to be given life. If Narví had been an elf, she would not have conceived in those years, but mortals are victims to the vagaries of time in ways we are not. The Brotherhood of Jarrin, they called themselves, for that was the poison with which the first assassin tried to tear apart the love my Lord and his Lady had found in each other. Though our peoples had coexisted peacefully for more than a thousand years, trading and forging friendships as strong as any between Man and Elf, there were those who considered the union of the races an atrocity. Whether they blamed Durin for ‘selling his sister to an Elf’ or whether they thought Narví ‘had fallen under evil Elf-magicks’, it was not only Dwarrow, who wanted to destroy their union; Elves, too, considered their love unnatural. Some even going so far as to call it Morgoth’s final revenge against the House of Fëanor,” he laughed, though it had not been funny at the time. “I no longer remember how many plots the Spymaster – Durin created the role in an attempt to keep his sister and her child safe – foiled until the dark day the Queen and the Princess Consort were murdered, but there were many.” He remembered Narví’s grey face at the funeral; the last time she dared steep foot in the Halls where she was born, until the time came – 8 years later – to return her older brother to the stone. Aiwë had been just past a century old when Durin died, broken by grief, and his death put a stop to their visits to the Hadhodrond until the birth of Durin III. “And into this uncertain world, a child was to be born; a child who would not understand why people hunted her, wanted her dead. An innocent. We all knew – those who were not blinded by their own darkened hearts – that the Brotherhood would not show mercy, even to an infant, and thus I offered my life to Narví. The Vanyaro’s oaths have to be given freely, bound with love. I offered myself, for love of Aiwë’s parents, before she was even born. I gave Narví my life, in service of her child, my oath that I would protect her from birth and until she left these shores.”

“I don’t understand.” Legolas’s head was spinning. Assassination attempts? It was beginning to dawn on him that Rhonith had a marked tendency to downplay the horrors of her past. “Why does that mean you can stand being around these Valar-cursed Stones?”

“Magicks. By my blood, by the blood of her mother, while pregnant, and by the blood of Aiwë herself, when she was born, I bound myself. I _changed_ myself. Because Aiwë was half Dwarf, the rituals were changed slightly, incorporating the ancient warrior rites of Khazad-dûm’s **Ushmâr** – the supreme protectors. Their order was ever tasked with the protection of the Royal Line, and the initiation process is gruelling. Just as the Vanyaro, the **Ushmâr** are the best among the best. With the aid of Cantor Nipta, the Stones took in our combined blood, as I took it into my being, creating something in me that… _resonates_ , I suppose, with the Voice of the Stonemother. I cannot hear it, as Dwarrow do, but it is simply a persistent buzz on the edge of hearing, rather than the bone-rattling discomfort you experience.” He frowned, trying to determine how to approach the next thing he needed to address, having finally decided that the younger ellon’s antagonism was based in a sort of jealousy – Ori had caved earlier and admitted to translating the words he had spoken when he first entered the Dwelling of the Singing Stones. “The rituals exist to bond the Vanyaro to his charge – but the bond goes both ways. It was more necessary when she was younger; through the connection I can feel her state of well-being and get a sense of her whereabouts compared to me. It’s the way I found the cavern where Aparuiwë held her captive. During the years she spent in the Dark Tower, she was shrouded from my senses, but the Dragon grew careless or complacent with those spells, and I began to sense her once more. Wherever she is, I can feel her presence, a small part of my heart connected to hers, my soul bound with hers… It is not unlike the bonds we make with our spouses, though I know you have not experienced that, for it is also founded in deep love and fondness.”

“So she loves you?” Legolas felt horrified. Rhonith had been ‘married’ since birth? Nurtalëon laughed[269].

“She has been my charge for more than five thousand years, Laicolasson. She is closer to me than a sister, but no, I do not hold her heart, and I do not love her in the way you imply.” It was – perhaps – not quite accurate to refer to himself as a brother, though part of the bond certainly qualified, but it was probably the only way to explain it that did not make the lovesick younger ellon consider him a rival for Aiwë’s affections, Nurtalëon knew. Beside him, Legolas slumped back against the wall, an invisible tension leaving his shoulders.

“I do not remember hearing your name before you showed up here. Rhonith has never mentioned it, I’m sure, though Adar obviously knew of you.” The Prince said quietly, for that had puzzled him. If the two were as close as the dark-haired Noldo claimed, why had she never spoken of him – even just as a friend?

“She wouldn’t have. When my father’s people left Valinor, to follow King Fëanor, so much blood was spilled, such atrocities committed… even our most ancient language was tainted by the Kinslayings, and only a few dare speak it now, lest they be considered impure of heart. To those who know how Vanyaro are made, practising such magicks is considered barbaric at best; at worst, the resulting bond is seen as an abomination. There is great power in blood, Laicolasson, for those who can wield it. The existence of the Vanyaro is not exactly a secret, but nor is it something our people would openly admit or discuss. Aiwë refers to me as her friend or companion in all her stories, a habit and a veil of obscurity on the true nature of our friendship.”

“I often thought she had so many companions on her journeys it was easier to call them all the same, but if they are all you… it is clear she is very fond of your company.”

“Oh, yes, as much as someone as wilful and stubborn as Aiwë loves having her protective and rather overbearing older brother around all the time!” Nurtalëon chuckled deeply. There were certainly times when she would prefer he was far away, but as she aged, they found compromises between his need to protect and her need to feel unfettered. Legolas got to his feet, making a polite but sincere bow to the seated Vanyaro.

“I bid you a fair night, Nurtalëon.” The revelations of the night had given him much to ponder.

“And to you.” He nodded.

 

When Legolas had made it halfway down the corridor, Nurtalëon spoke once more behind him:

“Ah, beware, Laicolasson… if you ever hurt her, I will punch you in the face.”

When he turned, intending what he did not really know, the other ellon had disappeared again, as though he had never been there. Shaking his head, Legolas made his way to the guestroom appointed to him, reminding himself that the next time Nurtaëon ambushed him with a discussion, he would remember to ask about the writing on his wall.

 

 

 

 

 

###### notes:

[266] Ritual of crowning = coronation

[267] Containing potential.

[268] Ranking-ceremony

[269] In a Dwarf, it might have been called a guffaw, but Elves are usually too refined and dignified for such sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now have a tumblr!   
> [Raiy's Tumblr](http://joyfullynervouscreator.tumblr.com/)  
> Feel free to say hi ;)


	48. Ruminations and Examinations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Arkenstone is revealed once more, Fíli has a devious side, and Dori yells.

Thranduil felt pleased, as he watched the light of dawn fall across the snow. He had finally managed – to his great relief – to get Legolas to leave the Mountain and the Stones, sending his son off with Amathanar to ensure the safe arrival of Rusgon’s group. Standing just inside the Front Gates – no longer blocked with stone, though only one side of the doorway would open, the gate Smaug had torn off its hinges having been bolted shut at some point in effort to keep snow from entering Erebor – Thranduil smiled as the light caressed his skin.

“Fair morning for travel, King Thranduil,” Nurtalëon spoke quietly from Thranduil’s blind side, but the Elvenking did not give away any surprise at the sudden address.

“You will be leaving soon, I expect?” Thranduil said, acknowledging the Vanyaro’s words with a nod.

“I am eager to return to Lothlórien, but I will not depart ere Aiwë leaves the Stone,” Nurtalëon replied, staring south across the white fields of snow, longing evident in his eyes. Thranduil nodded at the expected answer. “I hoped Prince Legolas would stay away from the Stones today,” Nurtalëon said, a note of relief in his voice. Thranduil knew that he must have been watching for some time before revealing his presence.

“He was markedly less reluctant to leave this morning,” Thranduil replied mildly, “your doing?”

“You have raised a stubborn child, King Thranduil, in that Aiwë was correct. I may have explained a few things to him, yes, to make him realise that the power of the Stones is not a foe he will be able to defeat through sheer determination.” Nurtalëon chuckled. The corners of Thranduil’s mouth curled in something that might have been a smile.

“My son is stubborn, yes, and at times foolishly so,” he conceded. “But he is young yet, and in love with her… I think we have all been such fools at least once.”

“I remember,” the Noldo said wryly. “Sometimes I wonder that my wife ever looked my way; but then, she is stubborn too. As the mortals say ‘faint heart never won fair maiden’… he will need that stubbornness to win Aiwë’s surely.”

The two Elves stood for a time in calm silence, before they returned to the awakening Mountain and the duties of the day.

 

* * *

 

Bifur had sped through breakfast, hoping to speak to Geira before he had to join Gandalf in the Man-King’s tent to examine the Arkenstone. The wizard had found him late the night before, looking better than Bifur had seen him since he left them on the edge of Mirkwood months before, but the stone that hummed beneath his feet gave lie to the condition the Wizard presented. Tharkûn was tired, but Bifur had no desire to argue against his plan for the day; the Arkenstone had to be returned to the safety of the Mountain. He knew that Dori was planning an official ceremony for the symbolic return of their precious heirloom, but that could be weeks away and the winter was growing ever harsher.

 _Are you awake?_ There was no reason for Bifur to speak aloud; the Stone would carry his voice to its intended recipient.

– _Cantor?_ She replied, her voice mellow like one who had just woken from slumber. – _You were kind to me… when I was frightened._ Bifur sighed, patting the oblong stone fondly.

 _I am glad you remember me, child, though I had hoped to speak with your older self,_ he smiled. _I wished to hear what she thought of the Arkenstone, as the only Dwarf who has seen it since Erebor was sacked._

– _It scared us,_ Geira replied. _It was beautiful, but there was Darkness in the lustre, covered by its white glow. We did not wish to touch, though it called to us, with a voice as sweet as the smell of indili **[270]** that grew in the gardens of my childhood home. It was hloima - **murdulshâlak **[271]**** but it would reach for your mind, your soul, so you would not know it was destroying you until it was too late to stop… it spoke not, yet its words would reach deep. _ As she spoke, the voice of her older self shone through, mingling until they were once and the same. _Be careful, Cantor Bifur, for the Darkness will fight its destruction._

 

* * *

 

 

Bombur felt a bit cheated. He understood Glóin’s desperate wish to be with his wife as soon as possible after the birth of the pebble he had not known coming, but he resented that he was being made to stay, even as he knew that his skills were needed in the Mountain. Maeassel had all but barred him from the kitchens during the day, only grudgingly allowing him to help with evening meal. Bombur knew she did it to be kind; he was working hard on the plans for the restoration, overseeing five crews of builders trying to keep the Gallery from collapsing as well as drawing up a new, airier Lower Commons. The maternal elleth – in a way that only made him miss Athalrún more – had noticed the exhaustion that dogged his feet, but she had not realised that he needed to work hard to be able to sleep. Working prevented him from missing his family too much, wondering when they would set off on their perilous journey and fearing what would happen to them as they tried to cross Arda without him. Rationally, he knew that even if he had been allowed to return, Athalrún did not really need him, she had travelled further than he ever managed when she was younger, and their eldest children would help her. Furthermore, she would be in the company of the princess and the caravan would be well guarded. He knew better than to disparage the wife of his old friend, for Dís was surely capable, in many ways more capable than her brother, though she lacked his recklessness in the face of an unbeatable foe. Dís would surround herself with only the best, and in truth Athalrún and the children were probably better off with her than if they had waited for him to return as he had promised. It did not stop him from worrying, and Bombur knew that nothing would appease his soul until he could hold all of them close and assure himself that they had come to no harm. Without Athalrún beside him, he never slept well in the first place, but his nights were further interrupted by scenes of the Battle he could not shake. In his dreams, he kept seeing the Orcs, stinking and filthy, swarming towards the mountain. He woke in cold sweat, choking on his own whimpered screams, when he thought of the poor fellow who'd already been half-eaten by a snarling orc when they reached him. In his dreams, he took the place of that unknown dwarf, and Bofur did not, as he knew had really happened, appear and bash in the orc's skull. If he wasn't being eaten, he was running down an interminable corridor of dark stone, feeling the presence of the dragon behind him.

 

* * *

 

Walking out of Erebor in the silent company of Gandalf, Bifur felt more than slightly apprehensive. He didn’t really know what he would be able to contribute; even though he could make stones sing with emotion by Singing, corruption and malign mental influence were not exactly emotions. He wished that he had been able to see the Arkenstone before it left the Mountain; mostly as a point of curiosity, Bifur steadfastly believed that Bilbo had done what was best for Thorin and the rest of them in the long run, even if they had not seen it at the time. He sent a small prayer of thanks to Mahal for sending them the small hobbit. Bifur strongly doubted that any of them – even if the preposterous idea had crossed their minds – would have been able to hand over something as beautiful as the Arkenstone to anyone, let alone the Elvenking. 170 years of hatred did not disappear during two weeks of acquaintanceship, after all, and Thorin was not the only one who had believed Thranduil’s motives for bringing his army to Erebor to be impure and based in avarice.

Bard, grim-faced as ever, even with the imminent arrival of his children to cheer him, awaited the Wizard and the Dwarf by the tent beneath which the Arkenstone was buried. Nodding to the two, he moved aside the cloth that blocked the snow and the cold from reaching the two men huddled inside. The tent was Elven make, and the frigid winter air did not seep through the cloth. The inside of the tent was warmed by a coal-fed brazier, burning merrily in the centre of the room, and yet its warmth could not take the feeling of chills away. Bifur pitied the two Men huddled around it; one was sporting a split eyebrow above a day-old black eye, while the other had his arm in a sling.

“As I told your King,” Bard began quietly, “it seems that the Arkenstone can make foes of friends, even if it is not held by them.” He gestured to the two guards, who looked sheepish. “This is Fram and Kalle, my friends, who are closer than brothers and some of the most even-tempered men I know.” The introduction only made the two look more sheepish, but Bifur felt his apprehension rise. “Late yesterday morning, they began quarrelling; it took three men to separate them.” Bard sighed.

“If you believe the stone has influenced your men unduly, why have they not been replaced by different guards?” Gandalf asked, looking over the two men carefully, his calm face giving away nothing of the thoughts that swirled behind his blue eyes.

“The men are scared,” Bard admitted. “Fram and Kalle were the only ones daring to volunteer, once they had calmed down once more. I allowed them to spend a few minutes every hour outside the tent, which seems to have ameliorated the effects of being near the stone to some degree.”

Bifur almost wished he had brought Flóki as a translator, the Wizard not being fluent in Iglishmêk, but when he made a questioning sound and a gesture towards the brazier, Gandalf nodded.

“Yes, we should begin immediately, Bifur, you’re quite right,” he muttered, waving the two men aside. The man with the black eye carefully moved the brazier, before Gandalf began chanting something under his breath. The Wizard’s power filled the small tent, pressing invisibly against Bifur’s eardrums, filling his heart with the feeling that he might understand the words if he could just hear them. The guards exchanged a glance with their new King, fleeing when Bard nodded. The bargeman-turned-King himself sighed, ducking out of the tent behind them. Bifur almost wished to follow, but he steeled himself against the impulse. This was his duty, for his people and his King and he would see it through.

Gandalf suddenly stopped chanting, and the Cantor and the Wizard were left to stare at the wooden box that had definitely not been visible before, standing in the place where the brazier had been. Carefully unlocking the box, Gandalf opened the lid, filling the tent with a whiter light than the coals had provided. Bifur gasped. It truly was a thing of exquisite beauty. The Arkenstone lay nestled in some rough cloth, glowing with a gentle, soothing light that made Bifur want to hold it. He had not even realised that he had taken several steps towards the gem when Gandalf’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder, squeezing hard.

“Well, I suppose there’s no need to ask if you feel something from the Stone,” the Wizard mumbled darkly. Bifur shook his head, trying to clear his foggy thoughts. Geira’s words came back to him, her warnings about the Darkness she had felt. “I thought I had eradicated all of Smaug’s magic from the Mountain…” he mused, “but maybe not?” Reaching towards the white glow, Gandalf’s old gnarled hand hovered in the air above the box. The Wizard closed his eyes, frowning deeply. His lips moved, though no sound escaped him, and Bifur felt again the pressure of tightly controlled power in the air.

Anchoring himself through the stone beneath the earth, the green stone of Erebor, of home, Bifur began to Sing. Gently, at first, trying to gauge how the Arkenstone reacted to the presence of a Singer, his voice slowly gained in strength. The words, incomprehensible to anyone not born with the gift, gained intensity as the Song continued. Weaving through the Song was the Wizard’s chant, but the two strangely did not clash. They did not mesh perfectly either, but neither seemed to be in the way of the other. The Arkenstone just glowed gently in its box.

 

Neither of the occupants of the tent seemed aware of time passing, while outside Bard had sent Fram to fetch mugs of warm broth. He did not want to leave the two alone, half expecting one or both to require assistance before the end. As the day wore on, the frown on his face deepened. Lord Dori arrived – a most welcome sight, to Bard’s mind – carrying a small kettle of steaming soup and a few loaves of bread. He joined them quietly, glaring at the silent tent as though his gaze could penetrate the heavy weave.

 

* * *

 

Fíli was trying not to be jealous, but he found it more than a little difficult. Watching the way Kíli’s smiles softened, whenever – almost _all_ the time – his mind turned to Ori, he felt a little left out. He chastised himself for the thought, but he couldn’t help but feel that it was unfair that Kíli – who had never wanted a One – had found his when he, Fíli, had not. It vexed him that he could not simply feel happy for his brother, but the jealousy remained. Feeling sorry for himself would . Fíli had – being the kind older brother he was – agreed to help him figure out what sort of gift Kíli should make… which was why he was currently hiding behind a towering bookcase and watching Ori mumbling to himself in Khuzdul as he read one scroll after another, making poor Mister Boggins sneeze with the amount of dust in the air. Fíli himself had felt the need once or twice, but managed to smother it; Kíli would murder him if they were discovered. Altogether, it was only slightly less boring than talking about diplomatic relations with Thranduil or listening to Balin coaching him on his duties for tomorrow’s Trial. When Bofur showed up, lamenting that there were only Iron Hills Dwarrow and Óin for company in the dinner hall, Fíli’s stomach grumbled. Bofur dragged off Master Baggins, whose appetite was already legendary, but Ori simply mumbled a non-committal something and barely looked up from the dusty pages of nearly indecipherable scrawls. Fíli had – when Bilbo had gone to fetch the two some lunch – snuck behind Ori, who was entirely absorbed in reading, and glanced at the page. The runes were the same ones he had learned, but they were _tiny_ and many cramped together so closely he had difficulty discerning where one rune ended and another began. Ori’s notes, on a piece of paper beside him, were scratches of ink, in some kind of shorthand Fíli could not decipher, but at least they were legible. Fíli swore to himself that he would not tease Ori later about the amount of times he had scribbled Kíli’s name…much. Making a quick decision, Fíli hauled Kíli to his feet, half dragging him out of the Library, only to turn swiftly, rapping his knuckles officiously on the nearest shelf while Kíli scowled at him and tried to balance his crutches. Ori’s surprised squeak made Fíli grin broadly.

“Dori is busy, and it’s time for dinner, Ori!” he announced loudly, deliberately oblivious to the way Kíli yanked at his arm, hissing at him to shut up. “We’ve come to steal you away from here, before the dust eats you,” he continued, gleefully watching the way Ori’s cheeks reddened when he spotted Kíli behind him. He did not need to turn to feel his brother’s glare, nor to know that Kíli’s face was equally colourful. When Ori spluttered some incoherent excuse, Fíli simply yanked him along, letting go only when they had left the Library behind and begun making their way down to the populated areas of the Mountain. Striding in front, Fíli let Ori fall back to match Kíli’s pace, close enough that he could be considered a sort of chaperone, but far enough to give the two young fools – he ignored the fact that Ori was fifteen years his senior easily – a little time together. Neither of them spoke a word to the others, and Fíli silently promised himself to be _less_ daft when he finally found the one he wanted – not that it would be very difficult. Arriving at dinner, Fíli steered them away from where Uncle Thorin was slowly improving at one-handed eating, and found some seats near the raucous party that always seemed to spring up around Bofur. Keeping his attention on the entertaining miner, Fíli pretended not to notice when his brother started pushing dishes towards Ori, offering him first pick of the food available.

 

* * *

 

 

Bifur felt hoarse with the effort and still unsure whether his Voice had any effect on the glowing thing in the box. It was beautiful, yes, but he no longer felt like it was a mere stone. Beside him, Gandalf’s face seemed to have been lined with deep shadows, looking as tired as Bifur felt.

“Do you feel anything from the stone now?” the Wizard asked, shaking off the stupor after long minutes of silence. Bifur shook his head. It seemed – to all his senses – as though the Arkenstone was simply that: a stone. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was far more than that, but at least it had stopped influencing him, he felt. “Neither do I,” Gandalf replied to his silent companion, closing the lid; once more hiding the Arkenstone from their eyes. “I suppose we may as well take it back to the Mountain.” Picking up the box gingerly, feeling physically weakened by their efforts, Bifur nodded. Stumbling out of the tent and into the last rays of the day, Dori was a beautiful sight before him, her mithril locks afire with the last light of the sun, but Bifur found her even more beautiful for the fact that she was carrying what looked and smelled like Bombur’s stew. The scent woke his stomach, which had been ignored all day, making it growl unhappily. The Men around them chuckled, but Dori just handed him a bowl with a kind smile, taking the box from his trembling fingers. Suddenly ravenous, Bifur attacked his bowl happily, while Gandalf next to him ate just as voraciously. When they had each finished a bowl of stew, Dori ladled more into the bowls, directing one of the Men to carry the kettle back to the kitchens and the group set out for the Mountain once more.

 

Dori carried the Arkenstone directly to the Royal Palace, trailing the tall wizard and Bifur like a mother with her ducklings. Bifur swayed slightly on his feet. The Wizard looked as tired as he felt, and the Cantor was wondering whether he would actually make it all the way to Thorin’s study without falling asleep where he stood. As they came within sight of the large doors that separated the Palace’s living quarters from the public space of the Throne Room, he gave it even odds. He barely heard Dori’s concerned voice, felt her hand shaking his shoulder.

“Bifur? Are you well?” Dori asked the gently swaying Dwarf. Putting her hand on his shoulder seemed to steady his footing slightly, but Dori was unsettled by the hazy look in his eyes, as though Bifur was asleep.

“I think our endeavours… were more.. taxing… than we thought, Master Dori,” Gandalf rumbled quietly. “I will seek rest,” he continued, reaching for the support of the sturdy walls as he ambled away from the two Dwarrow. Dori could only stare after the Wizard. Under her hand, Bifur’s body trembled lightly.

“Bifur,” Dori shook him lightly, but Bifur’s gaze remained vacant. “Bifur, can you hear me?” Truly worried now, Dori made a swift decision. Putting the box that held the Arkenstone on the floor, she swung Bifur onto her back, mindful that his axe did not brain her when his head came down on her shoulder. With a low oath, she picked up the box in one hand, and with the other she kept a tight hold on Bifur’s thigh as she made her way towards Thorin’s study, thanking the Maker and his Wife for her strength. Bifur had – as most of their race – a compact and sturdy body, and Dori sent up another prayer of thanks that he did not have his cousin’s girth.

 

* * *

 

The angry kicking at his door interrupted whatever Balin was saying about the Trial, for which Thorin was grateful. The whole thing was staged anyway, why did it have to be strategized more intricately than a military engagement? The pounding did not help the pounding in his skull, the loud sound acting as counterpoint for his building headache.

“Enter,” he called. The door did not open, though the kicks increased in intensity. When Balin rose to open the door, Thorin was equal parts shocked and amused by the sight of Dori standing in his doorway. Proving that he was smarter than his recent actions might lead some to think, Thorin simply waved the irate dam inside. Thrusting a wooden box into Balin’s arms, Dori proceeded to carefully lower Bifur’s apparently sleeping form onto the low divan in the corner. When she turned, Thorin employed a tactic he had honed over many years of cordial – and less cordial – interactions with his sister and amad.

“Mahal’s beard, Dori, what happened?” he asked, neatly derailing the tirade he could see forming behind her pretty face. Through all their journey, he had never seen Dori afraid, but obviously she was frightened by whatever happened to Bifur.

“He just – he went sort of hazy at first, like he was tired, and Tharkûn said that their efforts had been strenuous, whatever that means, and then Bifur just… crumbled.” Wringing her hands, Dori shot a worried glance at the still form on the divan. Bifur had neither moved now made a sound since they entered. “I tried, but I can’t wake him, and Tharkûn just went off to ‘find his rest’” she scoffed. “I thought I best bring the Arkenstone to you, but I don’t know what all they did with it in that tent all day, we couldn’t hear anything,” frowning at the thought, Dori continued hesitantly, “do you think.. it did something to them?” Balin patted her shoulder in reassurance.

“Probably it is as the Wizard said, and they are simply tired from a hard day’s work. Did he tell you whether it worked?” the advisor asked, which was something Thorin was rather keen to know too, however, he felt it wiser to keep silent.

“How dare you!” Dori hissed; Thorin savoured the surprise on Balin’s otherwise calm face. The Uzugbad was not often the target of his sister’s ire, not living in her house, and Thorin felt quite smug that for once _he_ was not the one targeted by female anger. Dori and his sister were rather alike, he thought, though Dori seemed harder to rile. Bifur’s collapse must have terrified her, to inspire such incandescent rage as the one now unleashed upon his hapless advisor. “Snollygoster!” Balin held up his hands in a futile attempt to avert Dori’s hard finger poking into his chest with each word she shouted at him. “You bletherin’ scunner! Your friend is unconscious – possibly felled by some unknown magic – and ALL YOU CARE ABOUT IS A STONE?! Unprincipled sleekit.. **Me lo yothur mi iraknadadu Nulukhkhazâd**.” Thorin interrupted her, before Balin, whose eyes were so wide they looked about to pop out of his head, could get it into his head to argue.

“Dori!” he thundered. Dori opened and closed her mouth a few more time, glaring at Balin, but she fell silent. “Dinnae fash so, Dori,” Thorin rumbled, soothingly, rubbing her arm gently. “Balin didn’t mean to sound callous, and Bifur will surely be fine. He simply appears to be sleeping.”

“But what if he’s not?” Dori said, quietly, looking at him as though she expected him to know everything there was to know about the Arkenstone and its potential effects.

“Then we will make sure that Bifur is reminded who he is, won’t we,” Thorin swore in low tones. Dori nodded, somewhat appeased. “For now, maybe you could take him to Óin? He should be able to tell us if Bifur is merely sleeping or…something else.” Thorin swallowed a sudden lump in his throat as he watched Dori pick up their unconscious friend. She had been right to lambast Balin, his usually impeccable timing and poise had clearly failed him after a long day of fencing words with the Elvenking and butting heads with Thorin himself over the case of the Trial. Holding the door open for Dori, he gave her one last nod as she left the room.

“Thorin, I didn’t mean…” Balin began, but petered off into silence when Thorin sighed and held up a hand.

“I know, Balin. It’s been a long day. Let’s get some food and a good night’s rest before tomorrow’s spectacle, aye?” Thorin replied wearily. His headache had not benefited from Dori’s rage and he let out a quiet sigh of relief when Balin just nodded, leaving his study quietly. Looking at the wooden box, Thorin felt curiously disinclined to open it, to look at the Arkenstone once again. He would wait until he had spoken with both Bifur and the Wizard, he decided, pushing the box off to the side of the room before making his way to the dining hall where a small gesture summoned Nori silently to his side.

“Whatcha need?” the Thief asked, carefully studying his King.

“Your sister,” Thorin began hesitantly, unsurprised by the way Nori’s face shuttered, turning blank at the mention of Dori’s gender. “I’ve always known, Nori,” he said tiredly, “it’s Dori’s secret to reveal and no one will hear it from me, but..” he paused, frowning. “Would you keep an eye on her tonight? She had a go at Balin earlier, which, while deserved, was more than a little out of proportion and rather unlike the Dori we have come to know in our travels,” he admitted. “I sent her to the Healing Halls with Bifur, who is unconscious, but I’d like you to… make sure she is alright.” Another sigh of relief escaped him when Nori just nodded, stealing a bread roll and a bowl of stew on his way out, probably to bring to Dori, Thorin thought. If only he could take care of his other problems as easily, he thought wryly, returning Bilbo’s questioning tilt of the head with a small smile, reassuring the Hobbit that all was well.

 

* * *

 

Fram and Kalle, eager to be away from the snow and the cold, had efficiently packed up the tent the Elves had lent them. Along with the rest of the things that had made their existence on watch slightly less than horrid, it was carried to the mountain and stored somewhere by the quietly scary elf who was their Captain. The two old friends stayed the night in Erebor, visiting a few friends in the Ruby Ward and otherwise relaxing. In the morning, they had been promised, the Dwarf-King was going to be put on trial for dangling that ‘small weird non-Dwarf’ – as one of the other Lakemen had put it – over the precipice. They agreed sagely that it wasn’t very Kingly behaviour – though neither had ever even seen a King before Thorin – as they shared a pint of dark ale.

 

* * *

 

In the Ruby Ward, Dori was also smiling reassuringly, though her smile was directed at her brother as she thanked him for delivering food. In the bed beside her, Bifur was breathing the slow, even breaths of deep sleep. Óin had examined him, declared it simply a matter of exhaustion, and told her that the Cantor would be fine, but Dori felt better for sitting by the bed, measuring his breathing against her own. The Iron Hills healer, Lívhild, had tried to make her leave, but Dori had adamantly refused. When Óin gave her permission to stay, however, the younger Dwarf had to subside in her efforts, though Nori noted the dark glances the lively healer was sending in Dori’s direction.

“I hear you gave Balin what-for,” he said, with a low chuckle. Dori scowled at him, blushing lightly.

“I shall have to apologise to Lord Balin… I was most disrespectful,” she sighed. Nori’s chuckle became a low laugh.

“Nah, don’t bother,” he replied with a shrug. “Thorin told me he deserved it.”

“Deserved or not,” Dori began, but Nori hushed her.

“No, Dori, just leave it. I’m sure Balin does not think poorly of you, and it’s hardly the first time someone has argued in our Company,” with a jaunty smile, Nori began juggling with a trio of empty water cups, to the applause of the dwarrow in the beds around them. Dori cracked a smile at his antics, throwing her own empty cup into the mix with a grin. “You staying here tonight or coming back to the house?” Nori asked, easily catching her cup and keeping the four cups tumbling through the air with little apparent effort.

“I think I will stay. Would you take word to Bombur and Bofur if they don’t already know?” she asked, suddenly worried, “I wouldn’t want them to think their cousin lost somewhere.” Nori nodded, and, with a final flourish, he made her cup soar high before it landed perfectly on the small table beside Bifur’s bed. To the sound of whistles and clapping, he chucked the other three high, catching them in a stack before setting them down beside her.

“Aye. Sleep well,” he said, and, with a final smile and a wave, he left the Ruby Ward, whistling calmly as he walked through the halls.

 

* * *

 

The blizzard that had covered their small camp during the night slowed down Glóin and Horthonion considerably, but they were finally in sight of the dark trees of Mirkwood. With the surety of an animal who knows its way home, Celegrandir chose his path through the tall trunks. They camped relatively close to the forest’s edge, sharing a quiet meal of lembas and watered wine before turning in for the night. Glóin missed meat – and mostly he missed _hot_ food – but he had to admit that the elven waybread made for efficient travel rations considering how little of it they had to eat to be full.

“If we have no more snow,” Horthonion said, interrupting Glóin’s mental lamentation at the unwelcome change in his diet, “and you can stand the riding, we can reach the Halls late tomorrow night. Then you may have ‘proper’ food, Master Dwarf.” The Elf laughed at Glóin’s expression; he had not reckoned with keen elven ears when he was grumbling under his breath. He was  beginning to think that the Elves had been uncommonly kind during their first trip through the dark forest, ignoring their various complaints and grumbles, pretending they could not hear every word.

“Well, it’s just not right, filling yourself up on two bites of bread – even if it is tasty enough!” he groused, making his companion laugh. After a few seconds, Glóin joined him. The messenger Elf was a peculiar sort, but Glóin found himself enjoying his company.

“I’m sure Iorineth will be able to find you some meat, Master Dwarf,” Horthonion teased. “Roast venison, maybe a nice succulent grouse, rabbit stew…” he continued listing different dishes, until Glóin threw a handful of snow at him.

“You’re going to make me hungry again with all your talk!” he chuckled. “Now we must reach the Halls tomorrow, just so you can keep your promise and get this Iorineth to feed us properly, my friend,” he chuckled, lighting his pipe with a smile. Horthonion nodded. “Can’t have my Vár thinking I’ve been starved on this journey,” Glóin continued sagely, patting his belly. It was not of a size with Bombur’s of course, few could boast such a belly, but Glóin was still nicely padded even after more than six months of travel rations and hard walking.

“Iorineth is the youngest daughter of Maeassel and Captain Bronwe,” he informed instead, “she will have taken responsibility for the kitchens when she returned. I am sure you will not feel slighted by her skill.” Glóin was sure that the Elf was making a joke _somehow_ but he could not for the life of him figure out what it was, and Horthonion’s face gave nothing away. The red-haired merchant tried to catch the humour he knew must be glittering somewhere deep in the Elf’s eyes, but Horthonion’s face would have earned him many coppers at the card tables in the less reputable parts of Ered Luin, and although Glóin was shrewder than most of his kin, he had not yet mastered the art of reading Elves.

 

 

 

 

###### notes:

[270] lilies

[271] poison (Quenya) - Poison(Khuzdul, lit. death-drink)


	49. Trials and...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Trial begins...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first half of the Trial chapter, part two will be posted Monday July 10 as part of my Dworin week contribution.

“How is your shoulder?” Thranduil had silently joined Thorin for breakfast, sliding into the seat next to the brooding dwarf. Legolas had taken a seat next to Kíli, engaging him in a serious discussion of archery which Thranduil did not care to follow. Thorin nodded silently.

“It is… it is as though I did not have the limb from birth,” he frowned, “and yet, if such a fate had been mine, I should be better at the simple things in life.” He gestured with the spoon he held; liquid foods were less of a problem, but roasts and other things needed to be cut into bite size pieces for him, like a young dwarfling, which rankled his pride.

“I no longer remember what it was to see with two eyes,” Thranduil admitted. “The gifts of the Eldar may heal much, and hide more, but even we cannot return that which is lost.”

“In truth, I am puzzled at the lack of pain,” Thorin said, his lip curling in a small smile. “I should have expected months of agony and risk of festering, but all I see is smooth new skin, a little tender, but no more than any new scar.”

“That… was not my doing,” the Elvenking said, his eyes running the length of the hall and avoiding the dwarf’s gaze.

“It was your healer’s work,” Thorin protested, but Thranduil shook his head slowly, suddenly looking as wary as Thorin had felt when they first encountered the dark trees of Mirkwood.

“No. Nestor healed you, yes, knitting together flesh and muscle… but it was not _he_ who removed your pain.”

“Explain yourself.” Thorin demanded, belatedly adding a growled ‘please’.

“Sellig healed you, Thorin.” Thranduil sighed.

“No… well, she gave Óin some pain numbing salve when we were at Beorn’s, but she did not heal me.” Thorin shook his head, dark curls tumbling across the rounded shoulder in question.

“You are mistaken. Rhonith was the one to heal you atop the Carrock,” Thranduil said quietly. “She brought you from the jaws of death back to the realm of mortal life, her fëa cradled the spark in you that _is_ life. She did something she should not have,” he paused, considering.

“So you’d rather she have let me die?” Thorin hissed, his blue eyes turning stormy. The Elvenking held up a hand.

“You mistake my words, King Thorin,” Thranduil sighed. “I have not wished you dead – permanently removed from the throne, perhaps,” his mouth curled in what Thorin recognised as a wry smirk, though it was gone in an instant, “but what Rhonith did was dangerous. I can only assume Mithrandir stopped her, but part of her… energy, if you will, lingered in your flesh, dormant until it was awakened by Nestor’s efforts. That is why you have healed so swiftly, without it costing your own or our energies; because the price was paid months before, when my daughter…” he trailed off, leaving his thought unsaid. “Nestor returned to my Halls, but he will spend months recovering from the efforts he expended on Kíli’s behalf. It is my belief that if Rhonith had not done to you what she did then…”

“Then Kíli would not have lived,” Thorin finished hoarsely.

“I cannot say, for sure, for my gifts are not those of a healer. My Queen would have known, but I saw Nestor when he left, and he did not look to me like someone who was…vigorous.” Thranduil kept gazing out at the gathering, letting Thorin regain control of himself once more. “It is a terrible grief,” he whispered, so low that the dwarf was not sure if he was meant to hear it, “to lose your child to death.”

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin had tried to warn Bilbo that the trial would be a spectacle without compare, but he could see on the Hobbit’s face that he had not truly expected the reality of it. On the throne sat Dáin, an old greybeard standing behind him; one of the oldest Dwarrow who had joined the Battle, in fact, Aldi, an Erebor-born nobledwarf. Decked in splendid armour and wielding a massive battle-axe, Thorin felt pleased to see that Balin had gone above and beyond with the official trappings for this event. The ceremonial armour was Ereborian made, of course, pulled from a dusty armoury somewhere, and had been polished to gleaming. The wicked edge of the executioner’s axe-blade caught the light of the nearest flickering torch with a menacing glint.

“Presiding over the trial of Oath-Shaming, Dáin Ironfoot, son of Náin, Lord of the Iron Hills!” Fíli cried, from his place on Dáin’s other side. The power of his voice, easily filling the vast space, made Thorin feel a rush of pride. His nephew was performing his task admirably. As Thorin’s Heir and one of the Lord Companions, Fíli had not been allowed to preside over the Trial, of course, recusing himself immediately. “Executioner for the trial of Oath-Shaming, Aldi the Grim, son of Vidar Goblinslayer, Noble Lord of the Iron Hills!” Watching the Hobbit blanch, turning his usually cheery face white as chalk, Thorin frowned.

“Does he know Aldi’s job is to cut off the braids or beards of the convicted… not his head?” he hissed at Balin, who was standing beside him as his arbiter. The look on his old friend’s face told him immediately that Balin did not know, but another look at the Hobbit made the answer quite likely to be ‘no’. Thorin cursed under his breath. A flurry of Iglishmêk signs ensued; catching Bifur’s attention and getting the Cantor to relay their message to Bofur, who was standing beside Bilbo. When the toymaker bent slightly to whisper into a finely pointed ear the tension bled out of Bilbo’s posture so suddenly, Thorin was certain the small body would have collapsed to the floor in relief if not for Bofur’s swift intervention.

“The Accused, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, named Oakenshield, Hero of Azanulbizar, called the Reclaimer, King of Erebor and Lord of Durin’s Folk in Exile, stand.” Dáin demanded. Balin was smirking, Thorin was certain of it, as his ears heated at the long list of his titles, but he could _never_ catch his advisor at it, which had always vexed him unspeakably. He stood.

“I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, named Oakenshield, Hero of Azanulbizar, called the Reclaimer, King of Erebor and Lord of Durin’s Folk in Exile.” Thanking his dear departed Amad for her drilling in repeating long and complicated sentences verbatim, Thorin nodded. “For this trial,” he said, removing the heavy Raven Crown and handing it to Kíli who had been standing ready beside him. “I stand as a Dwarf, as a Lord of Durin’s Folk, but not as the King of Erebor, and I ask that you judge me as you judge all who come before you, my Lord Dáin, and I shall abide by your ruling.” Accusing the King – who was the highest office of judgement – would have been a legal nightmare, only because it would have involved summoning the Lords of the Seven Clans to sit in judgement. Balin had neatly circumvented this necessity, by claiming that Thorin had not been crowned the King of Erebor at the time of the crime of which he was accused, and thus Dáin alone could judge the case. As long as it was an internal matter concerning the Longbeard Clan, Dáin had as much Durin-blood as Thorin himself could boast, even if he was fourth in line for the crown after Dís. “With me stands Balin, son of Fundin, Noble Lord of Erebor.”

“So be it.” Dáin replied, and Thorin was quite sure his cousin was enjoying himself immensely, when he turned to Bilbo next. “The Accuser, Master Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End, son of Bungo Baggins, Companion to Thorin Oakenshield, Dragon-Riddler, Master Burglar and **‘Ubahu Khazâd**[272], stand.”

Though visibly nervous, Bilbo had obviously been warned of what to expect, even if he had winced at some of the titles Dáin gave him. He never had liked being referred to as a Burglar, and Thorin would bet a fair amount of gold that the title of Dragon-Riddler made him feel pretentious in the extreme. It was important, however, that it was proven beyond doubt that Bilbo was a valued member of the Company, and he managed to repeat the list of names with only a slight hesitation. Dori had coached him well. “I am Master Bilbo Baggins, of Bag End, son of Bungo Baggins, Companion to Thorin Oakenshield, Dragon-Riddler, Master Burglar and **‘Ubahu Khazâd**. With me stands Dori, son of Arnóra, and Bofur, son of Bjartur, Lords of Erebor.”

“So be it.” With a wave of his hand, Dáin summoned Ori, who had been pressed into service as record-keeper for the day, and whose official robes were as beautiful as Dori had been able to make them. None of the robes they had found in the Halls of Records had been wearable, so the tailor had had to sew an entirely new garment – well, it was made from ancient fabric pilfered here and there, but no one could tell, which was the point. “Ori, Lord of Erebor, please read the charges.”

“Thorin Oakenshield stands accused of knowingly and maliciously intending mortal harm upon one Bilbo Baggins, ‘Ubahu Khazâd. This is a violation of the sacred trust bestowed upon Master Baggins when he did – without thought for his own life – save the then-future King of Erebor from certain death, after which Master Baggins was named ‘Ubahu Khazâd by the Grand Lady Usakh, Geira, daughter of Narví, Princess of Khazad-dûm and Lady of Durin’s Folk. Thorin Oakenshield is accused of Oath-Shaming, of dishonouring the pledge that all Dwarrow do consider Master Bilbo their friend and ally.”

“And who is this Geira, daughter of Narví, and does she have the right to bestow this title upon Master Baggins?” Dáin was definitely enjoying this. Establishing the credentials of everyone involved was a matter of bureaucratic nonsense as far as Thorin was concerned, but it was necessary. The fact that Geira could not speak for herself, of course, was a minor issue, but they had a plan for that.

“Geira, daughter of Narví, called the Immortal Ember, named Princess of Khazad-dûm at birth by Durin the Second, her blood-uncle. Geira, daughter of Narví was named Usakh makartûna Mahal when this age began; named Grand Lady of Erebor and Ered Mithrim by Thorin the First; named Noble Lady of The Red Peak by Rethkar[273] the Black, Lord of the Orocarni; named Noble Lady of Erebor by King Thrór; claimed sister of Princess Frís of Erebor; claimed aunt of Thorin II Oakenshield the Reclaimer. Lady Geira certainly has the right to claim Master Baggins among the ‘Ubahu Khazâd. In truth, her claim – spanning four Kingdoms – is stronger than any single ruler can boast. Under her aegis, Master Baggins has been granted the rights of hearth and home among our people.” Thorin was surprised to learn she had earned a title from the notorious Blackhand – famous for his mistrust of outsiders and even less fond of Elves than Thrór. The Blackhand had been old even before the birth of his own Adad and the gnarliest Dwarf one could encounter, in the late King’s opinion – personality or looks. Thorin did not know why it surprised him; her birth might have made her a Longbeard, but she had obviously travelled far and wide across the lands of Arda during her many years.

“The throne accepts the validity of Master Baggins’s ascension to the ranks of ‘Ubahu,” Dáin replied solemnly, though Thorin caught the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. After that litany, tongues that were not already wagging about his newly reclaimed aunt would definitely start. With a nod, Ori returned to his post, ready to write down the minutiae of the Trial. “Master Baggins, have you something to add?” Dáin’s dry tone – and unscripted question – was what alerted Thorin to the look on Master Baggins’s face, his mouth half open as if he wanted to speak. He also noted rather quickly that Dori was carefully – steel toed boots were hardly fair against bare feet after all – stepping on Bilbo’s toes. The Hobbit’s mouth shut with an almost audible snap. Balin let out a breath of relief; whatever Bilbo had wanted to say – probably involving the Arkenstone – was not what they needed his people to hear right now.

“Nothing to add, my Lord,” Dori said calmly. Bofur gave Bilbo a commiserating grin, and Thorin noticed the Hobbit’s well-concealed wince when Dori stepped off his toes.

“Thorin Oakenshield, have you something to add?”

“No.” Thorin glared at his unrepentant cousin. He’d sic Nori on the Lord of the Iron Hills soon.

“Well then,” and now Dáin was obviously smirking. Thorin wanted to throttle him. “How do you plead to the charge of knowingly and maliciously attacking one Bilbo Baggins, ‘Ubahu Khazâd, intending mortal harm upon Master Baggins?”

“Guilty, my Lord.” A great hush ran through the crowd at his words. Even if they all knew – or thought they knew, as the case might be – what had happened that day on the battlement, it was different to hear the admission of guilt pass his lips.

“And do you have anything else you wish this court to take into consideration, or shall we proceed to the sentencing?” Certain that his cousin was enjoying himself _far_ too much, sitting on _his_ throne, Thorin still kept a rein on his temper. They had planned this, after all, even if he didn’t like submitting such a feeble defence. It felt like running away from his responsibility.

“At the time, to my great shame and dishonour, I had fallen victim to the Curse of Smaug, the Gold-Madness,” Thorin said, pausing to let the expected murmur of noise pass before he continued, “which rendered me incapable of distinguishing friend from foe. I learned that Master Baggins had taken the Arkenstone to the camp of the Elvenking, whom I was convinced was my sworn enemy, and it was this apparent betrayal that led to my heinous actions. I offer no excuse for my reprehensible behaviour in this, only explanation. I do wish I could take back my deeds, but as the past is written in the stone, so I can only look to the future and swear to do better in the years of life the Maker sees fit to grant me before he calls me to His side.”

“Master Baggins,” Dáin turned towards the Hobbit once more; Bilbo did not look very reassured, though Dori had certainly warned him how this would play out. “The Accused offers repentance of his actions, do you accept?”

“I do so accept.” Bilbo said clearly. Around them, numerous whispers broke out.

“Let it be written in stone.” Dáin replied gravely. “The matter of the Arkenstone, however, is subject to a different Trial, and Master Baggins’s eventual guilt or acquittal in that matter has no bearing on this Trial.” Thorin idly wondered what the Elves – who had obtained prime seats as befitted honoured guests – thought of this spectacle, but he did not look to see their faces. “Lord Balin, you stand for the accused, who asks that his guilt be viewed on the basis of his madness…” pausing, that damnable twinkle once more apparent in his eyes, Dáin continued placidly, “sorry, apparent madness. Can you substantiate this claim?”

“I will, my Lord, based on witness testimonies, show this court that Thorin Oakenshield was, in fact, mad, at the time of the event in question.” With that, he summoned members of the Company to appear before the Court, giving evidence of Thorin’s behaviour in the past, and comparing it to his mindset while they were in Erebor. What Thorin had not expected, was Balin’s continuing list of witnesses. His attention had wandered slightly, but he was brought sharply back to reality when Dáin’s voice – carefully masking his obvious mirth – said:

“The Court accepts Prince Legolas of Mirkwood as witness.” Glaring at Balin’s back for this unscripted change of plans accomplished nothing, though it made him feel slightly better, but the Elf spoke calmly.

“I met Thorin Oakenshield with a bow in my hand, my arrow nocked. My group of Guardsmen – there were eight of us – surrounded the Company, for they were travelling in our King’s lands, and it is our duty to defend its borders. At the time, King Thorin did not know whether we would treat them with friendly eyes, or as unfriendly trespassers. Immediately, his weapon came to hand, and a single order had the party surrounding their youngest members, whom I later identified as Master Baggins, Lord Ori, and Prince Kíli. To me, it showed a leader whose first thought was defending his weakest,” Thorin wanted to smile at the glare Kíli sent towards the Elf’s back, but Legolas did not notice, “friends, even against a surprising foe. Later, in our travels, he spoke to me fairly, though cautiously, and showed me a Dwarf who could see beyond his immediate circumstances. In our discussions, I have come to know him as a fair King, though tempered at times, a serious Dwarf, with a great capacity for kindness as well as strength.” Legolas had not at first wanted to take part in the Trial, but he had remembered Rhonith’s words and knew that _she_ would have spoken for Thorin. As she could not, he would do so for her.

“It is our understanding that you also witnessed the event in question?” Dáin said, while the Dwarrow who took up most of the room were again whispering furiously. Thorin did not think an Elf had ever borne testimony in a Dwarven Court of Justice.

“I stood with Lady,” he paused slightly before the name, but soldiered on, “Geira, as we watched Thorin Oakenshield – his eyes black with rage and hatred, burning with despair and betrayal – dangle Master Baggins over the precipice.”

“What did you think?”

“I did not believe it was the same Dwarf I had met. Rhonith – Lady Geira – she told me the lure of a Dragon’s gold is almost impossible to resist. I argued with her, I called Thorin a tyrannical Dwarf, who should never be allowed to rule, and she asked me to withhold judgement, for she believed he would remember his true self; that he would be so greatly shamed by what he had done that no censure from others could ever compare. She asked that I pity Thorin Oakenshield, pity him for falling victim to Smaug, pity him that his hour of triumphant victory had also become his most bitter failing.” Whatever else could be said about the Prince of Mirkwood, Thorin thought, the Elf knew how to play the sympathies of the crowd: “And I did.” Stepping down from the dais, Legolas made his way back to Thranduil whose stoic face masked the fierce pride that emanated from the Elvenking. The next witness, however, made Thorin’s breath catch in his chest, for Dwalin had walked onto the dais. He did not think Balin had managed to convince his brother to appear, had not expected to see his Kurdel stand so close, far closer than he had in weeks, even before the Battle. Thorin’s heart hurt. Dwalin looked tired, as though he had not slept, and somehow smaller. Thorin wanted to put him to bed and feed him the choicest of morsels; clearly Dwalin was in one of his dark periods, when his war dreams were overwhelming and even bone-deep exhaustion could not quiet his mind. The sight tore at him, though the fact that he was – for once – not allowed to help, was so painful he could hardly breathe as he listened to Dwalin’s dead monotone recite the tale of their last meeting before the battle.

“I never thought to see such hatred in his eyes,” Dwalin ended his tale softly, almost as though he had forgotten his audience. “The King drew his sword at me.” Dwalin’s voice was dead, and only because he had known him so many years did Thorin catch the minute tremors that rocked his brawny frame. “I did not see Thorin in the King anymore, I could not see my…” The bald warrior trailed off, unable to complete his sentence before he whirled on one foot and sped from the room. Thorin knew that his eyes were trailing tears down his cheeks as he watched his heart walk away. The parallels to the day he had believed Dwalin had left him for good, holding the small **‘athu bass**[274] he had taken from the floor were unmistakable. His hand fisting around the small bead in his pocket, Thorin wanted to run after his Kurdel, but he felt as though his feet were rooted to the stone. He missed the entirety of Thranduil’s statement, but he no longer cared about the farce of a Trial anyway. He needed his Dwalin. At the very least, he needed Dwalin to be _Dwalin_ , even if he would no longer be _his_ Dwalin. This greyed out imitation that walked the halls of Erebor… he could not bear it.

 

 

 

###### notes:

[272] Greatest friend of dwarrow.

[273] The Blacklocks usually chose their own names upon reaching adulthood; most often in Khuzdul.

[274] Bead of binding contact.


	50. ... tribulations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the second part to chapter 49 as promised.
> 
> Today's Dworin week prompt was Despair - Hope, and this chapter has a bit of both ;)

He had not noticed at first – not really. It had seemed no more than the slow inclusion of an unfamiliar comrade, an attempt at kindness towards a companion wronged. He had not thought it strange, had not wondered when he saw the huddled form under the fur cloak.

He wondered now.

He wondered when it had begun, when he realised how blindly he had seen – or not seen.

There were darting glances, and strange looks in familiar eyes. A strangers eyes, staring from a familiar face, and he had not known to see beyond what he saw.

Questions of loyalty next; whispers in corners, in dark hours of night. He had seen then, but he had not _seen_ , he knew now.

A breaking; a heart? – a bond? – a mind?

Small things adding to a picture he did not wish to see now glaringly obvious as he looked.

He had seen hate, seen anger, seen fear. He had believed anguish, but it had laughed at his pain.

He was alone, alone, alone, alone.

No light in the darkness, a promise broken.

He had screamed, screamed until he could scream no more, and wept with his grief.

He had wept, for something that died; quietly perished, without knowledge or thought, to make way for the other.

The small smiles, the glimmers of light – he saw them now, clearly. Clearer than glass, as it pierced his mind with unbearable agony.

Grey bleakness surrounded the pain, a dull throbbing where he had once felt his heart sing.

The eyes, so dark… so full of hate as they speared his soul, and he knew what the eyes were saying, heard their mockery in his dreams.

_Not you, never you. Never, never, never._

He tried to scream, scream his own truth, but they eyes cared not; dripping their poison with each new look.

He was losing the fight, and he knew it.

The knowledge was oddly peaceful. He knew what he had to do, had to give. This last foe, he would not beat. Freedom beckoned.

He just…had to… let…go…

 

* * *

 

 

_Dwalin…_ Geira’s soft hum in his mind brought him back to sudden awareness; her gentle tones a balm for his bruised heart as he slowly recognised the Amrab-rirakîn. _What is wrong, gentle heart?_ Somehow, she sounded maternal, rather than patronizing, and Dwalin did not even care that his face was wet with tears as he leaned against the Stone.

“ **Ranâk damyur**.” Her gentle hum surrounded him with acceptance, though she asked no questions, letting him pour out his grief in private. Dwalin wished she had been able to touch him physically, though the embrace he could feel with his thoughts did help some. Closing his eyes almost allowed him to feel her touch, stroking his hair gently as he listened to her gentle lullaby. It was peaceful. For the first time in many days, Dwalin slept soundly, all his nightmares kept at bay by the soft Song of a Khazad-dûm lullaby.

_Ishrigif, zamahashmarizu_  
Galz uru, ibriz tâti izlêf  
Badug ‘ukhâl, sâti ibdêg   
Nûlukhulkhud tanlikhi    
Ma igrid id-‘uznel  
Azluf ni khilîn mashamrul  
Azluf khidu, insusul ni thanadê.  
Azluf, nadan, zamahashmarizu [275]

 

 

In the Throne Room, the Trial continued.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bifur, with Nori walking swiftly behind him, was the one to follow Dwalin’s disappearance from the Throne Room. Worried for his old friend, whose mood did not seem to be improving in Bifur’s opinion, the Cantor had felt more than uneasy at the calling of Dwalin’s name for the list of witnesses, and if he had been asked beforehand, he would have opposed Dwalin taking a stand to speak of those dark days. He had seen Thorin’s shock, both at the actual appearance of Dwalin at the Trial, as well as at his actual physical appearance, and the look on his King’s – and friend’s – face had made it clear to him that Dwalin had been successful in hiding from the Dwarf who loved him. As they sped through the empty halls, Nori was muttering curses and imprecations under his breath – most of them aimed at Balin and Dáin – an outpouring of sentiment that Bifur agreed with wholeheartedly. The two friends did not speak, as they took shortcut after shortcut, both of them knowing where the big warrior would have gone to seek a measure of the peace his appearance in the Throne Room had destroyed.

 

* * *

 

 

Love rocked him gently, like a babe in arms as it carried him away from the pain and the fear.

_All is not lost. Cry your tears, I will hold you tight, I will help you._

The voice was familiar but strange, coming from far away.

He broke, softly, softly, breaking upon the waves that held him. Soothed him.

The soft darkness held him. It sang; a tune both familiar and unknown.

_My darling, my dear,  
my sweet, do not fear._

_Sleep, my child, sleep in gentle peace,  
sleep in my arms and let memory cease._

_My darling, my dear,  
my sweet, do not fear._

_Forget the pain, the darkness, despair  
of the hurts and the tears you won’t be aware._

_My darling, my dear,  
my sweet, do not fear._

_Wrap the calm, the love, all around you  
sleep peaceful, and your dreams will not hurt you._

_My darling, my dear,  
my sweet, do not fear._

 

The eyes faded, chased away by the voice that was singing in his sleep. In the peace, he felt relief, a small beacon of hope shining through the darkness beneath his eyelids.

 

* * *

 

 

When they reached the Dwelling of Singing Stones, Nori could not hold back his gasp. Bifur’s astonishment was equally heartfelt though soundless, his eyes wide as saucers as he stared at the strange tableau before them. They had found Dwalin, yes, and where they had expected, but not alone. The warrior’s shaved head was resting calmly in the lap of Geira, whom they had not believed would leave her Stone for weeks yet, her hand running gently through his dark hair as she sang soothingly. Geira’s stone remained in the place it had been ever since she had run down here, but it appeared to have cracked open along one side. Nori felt unable to tear his gaze away from her gaunt form – though he personally thought calling her gaunt was a misnomer; her skin was stretched tight across the bones of her face, her wrists looked like they might snap under the weight of her own hands. With her eyes closed, only the fact that her chest moved removed the notion that they were staring at a dried-out corpse.

They did not know the lullaby, but Bifur thought it felt old; as though the Mountain around him recognised it, but only barely. For once – and that was the main reason he thought it was an old song – the Stones around him did not resonate with the tune, no voices joined Geira’s clear tones, and Bifur could only surmise that no Dwarf had ever sung this song within Erebor. The song was a distant concern, however, compared to what his eyes were telling him. Geira’s lap and hands, as well as her lungs and her head, were obviously flesh, but the rest of her…Bifur was not sure. He thought it looked as though she was seated in her egg, like a tall throne encasing her slight figure; her feet were still encased in Soul-Stone, and he could see tendrils of it snaking around her chest and shoulders though it seemed to be retreating. Dwalin continued to sleep.

_I had to do this…_ her voice whispered silently in their heads, breaking whatever spell had kept them frozen in the doorway. Bifur’s eyes finally noticed the tall shape of Nurtalëon, who was watching the spectacle without moving. Only his mouth showed any reaction to the sight; it had thinned into an almost invisible line of disapproval.

“What…how?” Nori croaked, at once horrified and fascinated by the half-stone-half-flesh apparition. In her throne-like seat, Geira smiled sadly. Her dry lips cracked, a single drop of blood trailing down her chin, adding to the horror of the vision she presented.

_Ranakâl needed me. He needed the peace of true sleep. I have heard him, as I slept, as he thought I did not listen; he was so close to breaking. I could not… let him die._

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin barely heard the verdict being pronounced, not even waiting for Dáin to finish the traditional closing sentence ‘ **Ins Mahal taglibi luknu **[276]**.** ’ before running from the Throne Room, every fibre of his being quivering in fear that something was terribly wrong. As he ran, he tried to convince himself that he would be in time, though he did not know what he would be in time to do, and blocking out the small voice in the back of his mind saying that he had waited too long; it was too late. Only luck saved him from tumbling down more than one stairway, and he was limping slightly by the time he arrived in the Amrab-rirakîn, his barely-healed hip protesting his flat-out run vehemently.

 

The wounded noise Thorin made when he caught sight of Dwalin’s sleeping form alerted the others to his arrival.

_And thus, you arrive before me once more, Thorin Uzbad._ The wry tones of his Aunt’s voice barely penetrated the mental fog that seemed to hold his thoughts in its grasp as he stared uncomprehendingly at the sight before him.

 

“What’s going on?!” the King of Erebor demanded, but his Cantor and his Spymaster could only shrug, clueless.

_You have been blind, Thorin Uzbad, blinder than even I realised, and in your blindness, you have hurt the one whose heart belongs only to you,_ Geira murmured sadly in his head. Thorin winced.

“What do you mean, sister?” Nori asked, when Thorin could not find the words, lost in staring at the terrifying view before him. Surely flesh was not meant to be so intricately connected with stone? His heart nearly skipped a beat when he realised that the oddly coloured – at once all colours and no colour – stone was snaking its way towards Dwalin’s back. In her seat, Geira hissed in pain, but she continued to sing, peace filling the small cavern. The Stone changed course, running up the side of her leg to melt into the constantly shifting mass of stone around her.

_My ranakâl cries, Thorin Uzbad, he cries out in pain, but you do not hear, do not see. You tell me he is your love, your One, and so, I must ask you this:_ “If he is your One, why is he tearing himself apart thinking you have your heart set on that of another?” Pausing her song to ask the question, Geira’s blue eyes suddenly opened, seemingly staring into Thorin’s soul. Behind the gathered Dwarrow, Legolas’s pale face appeared along with the sound of his gasp, his hand clenched tight around Thranduil’s wrist as the two Elves stared at the impossible apparition before them.

“I don’t know…” Thorin felt his heart breaking. “I believed he wanted space from me, time to heal from what I did, what I said… but I never thought… I have only ever loved one person, one heart. If he could think…then I have truly failed the dwarf I love.” He stepped forward, but Geira held up a skeletal hand to stop him.

“Don’t!” she gasped, her back bowing as a scream of agony tore itself from her throat. Nurtalëon, who was closest, was the first to reach her, but he knew better than to touch the Stone, which retreated a little further. Her eyes flew open once more, locked on Nurtalëon’s grey. Thranduil’s hand had clamped down firmly on Legolas’s arm, keeping the younger Elf immovable beside him. He might not know what was going on, but surely it was not something within his power to change.

“What’s happening to her?!” the Elven prince cried, but no one had an answer to give. Beside him, Bifur had begun singing something no one understood, but Legolas couldn’t tell if the sounds had any effect.

“Nadad…” Geira wheezed. “Help me.” Nori nodded resolutely, moving swiftly to her side, even if he had as little idea as the rest of the throng that had gathered outside the cavern. Dáin was trying to console Balin, who felt responsible somehow, while Ori distracted himself from the pained screams and whimpers by making copious notes, his bottom lip clamped s tightly between his teeth that he drew blood. Dori’s strong fingers had wrapped themselves around Bifur’s, unconsciously seeking comfort and reassurance. The Cantor squeezed back. “Carry. Out.” Geira panted the words between shrieks of pain, and Nori carefully picked up the sleeping – he had his doubts it was merely _sleep_ , but Dwalin at least _looked_ asleep – warrior. Geira’s hand remained glued to Dwalin’s head, her song continuing with the help of the Stones around her. Bifur began humming the tune she had been singing, desperate to be of use somehow. Dori squeezed his hand, joining the gentle humming. Geira’s other hand fluttered weakly in the direction of Nurtalëon, but the Vanyaro had an uncanny knack for wordlessly knowing what she wanted, and picked her up in his gentle hold, wrapping a fold of his crimson cloak around her body as she slid free of the Stone with another loud cry of pain.

“We need to get them both away from here,” Nurtalëon barked, worriedly looking down at his charge, who had passed out. “And keep humming, for Aulë’s sake!” Nori nodded, his face paler than usual as he set off, connected by a hand and a slim arm to the tall warrior beside him, who had to stoop awkwardly to ensure that their two unconscious burdens remained in physical contact. Nurtalëon did not know exactly how she had done what she had done, but he knew the Song and the touch was of paramount import. Fear like he had not felt for more than an age wrapped itself around his heart and he had no comfort to offer the surrounding Dwarrow, nor the two white-faced Elves who stepped aside to let him pass.

 

* * *

 

The oddest procession Erebor had ever witnessed made its slow way up through the levels. Dáin had gone ahead, clearing the way of nosy gawkers as best he could, but it was an impossible task, he knew, and simply settled for clearing a path through the gathered throng.

At the head of the line came Thorin, his face grim and drawn in deep lines. Right behind him walked the odd duo of carriers, each trying to match their significantly disparate strides, giving them a peculiar lurching gait. Right behind Nori and Nurtalëon walked a white-faced Dori with Bifur, who was humming rather loudly, while Ori – whose gift for music was relatively limited – tried to write down the words he remembered hearing. The Scribe’s notes would later be the basis of his treatise on the Singing Stones, but, in truth, his scribbling was a way of distancing himself from what was going on around him. He was glad when Kíli’s clunky gait joined his, the slow speed of the train of dwarrow a boon for the youngest Prince of Erebor. On Kíli’s other side came Fíli, who was followed by Legolas and Thranduil. The Elvenking’s face was inscrutable as always, but the younger elf’s façade was cracking, revealing his deep anxiety.

Geira’s face had been turned into Nurtalëon’s shoulder, her breathing much slower than normal. When the group came to a halt outside Thorin’s suite of rooms – he had taken over his parents’ rooms until the King’s Rooms could be properly sorted and Thror’s belongings removed – the King opened the door, letting his Spymaster and the dark-haired Elf precede him inside.

“He wanted to give himself to the Stones,” Geira whispered, when the door shut behind the five of them. “It was a custom, once, for those who could not bear to live… usually those who were so twined with their Ones that the loss drove them to the edge of reason. I-I could not… he was _wrong!_ ” she cried, “but he did not wish to listen. I have never…” she paused, shuddering in Nurtalëon’s arms. “My Grandmother was a Singer, and I learned the Songs, but I have never Sung before… it is not my power.”

“You are not singing now,” Nori pointed out, feeling slightly foolish doing so. Placing Dwalin on the fur-covered bed, he stretched, feeling his spine pop.

“I feared… if my hold was weaker than the Stones, ranakâl would be lost to us.” She smiled weakly at Thorin. “Now… is up to you. I need…rest.” Her blue eyes closed once more, and Thorin could only nod woodenly at Nurtalëon.

“Thank you,” he croaked, reeling from her words. The heavy clouds of failure descended on his soul, as he thought of what they meant. The idea that his Dwalin could have believed… he couldn’t even bear to think about it. Pulling the fur-lined blanket out from underneath the sleeping warrior, Thorin wrapped himself around his still form. He barely heard the door close behind the three of them, hiding his face and the tears that spilled hotly from his eyes against the back of Dwalin’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent.

 

* * *

 

 

Leaving the King’s bedroom, Nurtalëon strode away quickly, knowing the other Elves would follow him. He made no move to disappear from their sight, far too worried about Aiwë, whose lack of weight scared him beyond anything he could recall having felt in thousands of years. He could feel her heart beating, slow like treacle, one beat for every time his own pulsed twice. Whatever she had done, it had cost her dearly, he feared, hoping that the price would not prove too steep. Shifting her slightly, he pressed the runes that appeared to be part of the artwork and made the doorway appear in the wall mural that concealed Aiwë’s room, leaving it gaping behind him as he moved to place her carefully beneath the covers of her bed. The Elvenking and his son followed, surprised by the appearance of a door in what they had believed a solid stretch of wall. Legolas’s own room was the next one down, and when they entered, the room was obviously decorated by the same hand responsible for Legolas’ field of tiny tourmaline flowers. This room, however, sported a large door, which led to a large balcony, cleverly hidden from view from below, but spacious and occupied by several large beds of long-dead plants.

“What…what did the Stones do to her?” Legolas was the first to break the silence, staring in horror at the emaciated figure in the bed. Thranduil shook his head.

“It was not her time to leave the Stones,” he said, making Nurtalëon nod.

“I have seen it done only once, but usually the Singers have to free a person from the confines of the Stones. Breaking free, in this manner, is… not advised,” he finished woodenly. Pulling a chair close, he sunk down onto the seat heavily, placing his hand gently along her cheek. With a slight sigh, she turned her face into his palm.

“ _Sangië, Nurtalëoninya._ _Ceninyel. Á lelya mar.[277]_ ” The Vanyaro glared, but Aiwë did not open her eyes to see it. With that, she fell silent, and the three watchers eventually realised that she was asleep. None of them made any effort to leave the room, keeping silent vigil throughout the night.

 

* * *

 

Dori had – once Nori had relayed the bare bones of the situation inside – taken up position with Bifur outside the King’s Rooms, keeping anyone from entering. That meant Balin, the two Princes, as well as Dáin, though the younger two received a far kinder ‘get lost’-message than their elders. Dori might not know for certain, but she was quite sure – and the way Bifur radiated silent approval felt like vindication – that Balin and his cousin Dáin were at least partially responsible for Dwalin’s behaviour. She set Ori to watch the Princes – though they were both too worried to get into mischief, Dori reasoned that the three of them would keep each other from fretting about their elleth as well as the two Dwarrow in the room behind her. Bofur had been put in charge of wrangling Master Baggins, who felt far too responsible for Dwalin’s appearance at the Trial earlier – refusing to believe that he had no reason to feel guilty for events outside his influence or control was one of the few things about Master Baggins that truly annoyed Dori. Such small shoulders were not made to carry the whole of Arda, she thought, even if blasted wizards seemed fond of putting it there. She remembered Tharkûn’s words from that night in Bag End, the way he had implied that they would be utterly doomed without the Hobbit, and she had not appreciated it then, just as she did not appreciate the way Master Baggins seemed determined to continue Gandalf’s policy of assigning him full responsibility for the welfare of the whole Company.

 

* * *

 

Bifur’s mind was reeling. He might not have been trained as a Singer until the injury that had made him a Cantor, but everything he knew and felt told him that what Geira had done should be impossible. He had heard of those who ‘went to the Stone’ before their time, though it was something most Singers kept mum about. Having heard of the practice and reconciling the desire with the Dwalin he had known in Ered Luin, was impossible; his friend would never simply have given up without a struggle. The Dwalin who returned from the Throne Room on the day of the Battle of the Five Armies had been a different dwarf in several ways, however, and Bifur feared that _that_ Dwalin might be damaged enough to see it as his only option. Although he felt deeply concerned about his friend, what puzzled him most was the idea of someone _inside_ the Stone being able to affect it to the point that they could break out while at the same time using their connection to the Stone Mother to Sing – he had believed Geira incapable of true Singing by her own admission – and Bifur worried what consequences her choice would have. Even before they had reached the Stones, he had felt the sheer _wrongness_ of it, as the Stone tried to hold her, fighting against her. He had tried to Sing the Song of Release, but it was not meant to be a swift process to take someone out of the stone. Each layer was meant to be Sung at until it took on an almost liquid form, returning to the body of the Dwarf inside it, replenishing part of the stone it had taken from the patient to form itself. Bifur was so lost in thought that he didn’t even realise that Dori was sending people away from the door. When the tailor began snarling invectives at Balin, he felt curiously impressed with her vocabulary, though with Nori as a brother, he probably shouldn’t have been surprised that Dori would know that many curses. Only her own sense of decorum seemed to keep her from yelling at the old dwarf who was cowering before her like a small boy being scolded, which was what the two schemers deserved, in Bifur’s opinion. Their poorly thought-out plan might have resulted in at least one death – and he didn’t dare consider what that would have done to Thorin, not to mention Balin and Dáin themselves – and unless Geira’s Elven healing saved her, it might still kill her to have saved Dwalin.

 

* * *

 

“Is she going to die?” The two self-appointed sentries had been alone for some time when Dori’s shaky voice broke the silence between them. Bifur squeezed her hand, only at that point realising that Dori’s fingers were still vice-like around his own. Holding up his free hand, he signed clumsily.

_I. Know. Negative._

Dori exhaled shakily. “Mahal watch over my sister,” she mumbled, “and Dwalin.” Silent tears ran slowly down her face. Bifur felt adrift; he was hardly used to handling crying ladies. Settling for treating Dori as though she were Blidarún come to him to be consoled after skinning her knee, he wrapped his arms around Dori, turning her face into his shoulder as he hummed soothingly against her mithril hair.

 

* * *

 

Nori, who had gone to the kitchen to inform Maeassel that they’d need several food-trays for dinner that evening, as well as getting her to start preparing a nourishing broth for Geira, returned to the Royal Palace just as Dori collapsed against Bifur’s stout form. When the Cantor caught sight of him, Nori smirked at the situation, competently relaying what he had done in Iglishmêk before sauntering off, feeling Bifur’s dark scowl follow him down the corridor. If it had been anyone else with their arms around Dori like that, Nori might have protested – or saved the hapless fool – but he reckoned that Bifur was capable of calming down his sister and honourable enough not take advantage of the situation. Instead the Black Owl went to do what he did best: spy on unsuspecting numpties. Nori felt professionally insulted that he had had no idea of the plans Balin had made for the Trial, and he rightly guessed that the two responsible would be found together, sitting in Balin’s sitting room. Settling in to listen and learn, Nori made himself comfortable.

 

* * *

 

 

Feeling Dwalin’s gentle heartbeat beneath his hand was not nearly enough to calm the raging sea of emotion he found himself drowning in. A dark curse on his lips, Thorin jumped from his bed, throwing his own tunic onto a chair and pulling out a sharp dagger. With a silent apology to whoever had made the garment, he slit Dwalin’s tunic open from top to bottom, pulling the halves apart to reveal Dwalin’s furred chest. Limply dropping the blade on the floor, Thorin returned to his place behind Dwalin’s bulk, his arm wrapped tightly around the warrior’s chest and his palm resting above his beating heart. Pressing his own chest closely against Dwalin’s back, feeling his skin so warm and _alive_ finally allowed him to calm down a little.

 

 

notes:

[275] Lay down, I will protect you  
the Day is over, the sun is sleeping  
Dreams of peace, you are dreaming  
Moonlight shines  
Do not fear the shadows(evil)  
sleep in protected peace  
Sleep now, safely in my arms.  
Sleep, child, I will protect you.

[276] As Mahal would speak (it is the truth/it is so).

[277] Necessity, my Nurtalëon. I see you. Go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And look, I tried writing poetry in Khuzdul, eep.


	51. Exits and Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some truths revealed, some answers freely given.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the same chapter - more or less - as I uploaded yesterday, as it's easier to edit in word...

When the light of dawn began painting the slopes of the Lonely Mountain in hues of gold, glittering in the icy diamonds that appeared scattered on the snow-covered ground in the frozen air, Nurtalëon finally moved from his post. His dark eyes opened, blinking slowly. As he stood, his hand left Aiwë’s face where it had rested since he had laid her on the bed the night before. Turning to the small pack that held what was left of his travel provisions, Nurtalëon swept his grey-and-crimson cloak around his shoulders, fastening the holly leaf clasp securely.

“You’re leaving?!” Legolas exclaimed, aghast, when the Vanyaro’s movements registered.

“Aiwë is herself – as you know her – once more, and my place is not here but in my home,” Nurtalëon replied, ignoring Legolas’s rude tone. “Aiwë herself told me to go home, and so I shall. I am no longer needed here.” The Vanyaro bowed to the two ellyn. “ _No gelin idh raid dhîn, a no adel dhen i chwest_[278].”

“ _Galo Anor erin râd lîn **[279]**._ ” Thranduil returned his gesture with a polite nod. Legolas simply sputtered unintelligibly.

“I will offer your greetings to my Lady, Thranduil Aran. _Namarië_.” Another nod from Thranduil and the Vanyaro was gone as though he had never been there. Thranduil had to hide his outright chuckle at the poleaxed expression on his son’s face.

 

* * *

 

When the Elf who knew more than he ought showed up outside the King’s door, Dori was still standing there. Bifur had gone off to beg them each a bowl of breakfast from the kitchens.

“Lady Dori,” Nurtalëon bowed. “I entrust the care of Aiwë – Geira – to your capable hands.”

“You are leaving then, Lord Elf?” Dori replied, staring into his unsettlingly penetrating eyes. The Elf smiled suddenly.

“How was it… ah, yes,” he murmured, before saying in perfect Khuzdul, “ **Khuzd tada tabjabi d'ahlut yusth mud ashmur diya ins ubnanhu.** **Damâm uru 'aban. **[280]**** ” Dori laughed, surprising herself. Nurtalëon returned her laugh with a pleased smile.

“I cannot fault you that, Lord Elf,” she nodded. “ **Mukhuh bekhazu Mahal tamrakhi astû**.”

“ **Mukhuh targzu satarrigi sigin.** ” Nurtalëon replied. “I should offer my farewells to your King.” Dori nodded, opening the door silently.

 

* * *

 

Nori had spent his night hiding in a neat little closet in Balin’s house. He hadn’t learned much, if he was honest, at least not much more than knowledge of the players involved had led him to guess. Balin was claiming that he had no idea how close his brother was to the edge, which Nori thought a bit unlikely. _He_ had known something was wrong – perhaps not to the degree evident, but he _had_ known – and Balin lived with Dwalin, presumably spending more time with him than Nori managed. Dáin was steadfastly unconvinced that Dwalin could have died, a stubborn streak of denial rearing its head, in Nori’s opinion.

He could understand why Balin had thought forcing Thorin and Dwalin together, forcing them to see how much their distance was hurting them, might have worked, but Nori would have gone about it much differently. To his mind, Dwalin had a right to feel hurt by Thorin’s actions, for Nori remembered that while he had stated that his love was unbroken, he had not forgiven Thorin for the episode in the Throne Room, nor for the month they had spent in the mountain beforehand.

As he sat through the hours of the night, waiting – much like his unaware companions – for news, Nori wondered if the Throne Room incident really was the only thing that weighed on Dwalin’s mind; he could not remember – aside from just before the Battle – the last time he had caught Thorin so much as touching Dwalin. Though neither was demonstrably affectionate outside of very select company, he had caught lingering glances, stolen kisses, and quiet companionship between them during the Quest itself. He could not pinpoint when they had _stopped_ but he was quite sure that the last time he’d seen them close enough for touching had been when they had all thought their goal lost, walking away from the Doorstep.

If Geira was right – and Nori saw no reason to doubt her words – Dwalin believed that Thorin’s heart had chosen another. To the Thief that was a rather ridiculous notion, but Dwalin had never felt particularly secure in his position in Thorin’s heart, Nori knew, even though anyone who bothered to look could see that the King more than adored his Guard-Captain. Nori had – once – had to deliver an urgent report, and climbing through the window of Thorin’s bedroom was the quickest way to reach him, so Nori had clambered across a few rooftops and dropped himself through the open shutters. He had paused, silently perched on the windowsill, caught in a moment of simply watching his King stare at a sleeping Dwalin. Nearly 75 years had passed since that day, and Nori still remembered the way he had looked, and – for the first and last time in his life – he had envied the Balkhur. He had shaken the feeling quickly – his kind were not meant for proper _love_ – and delivered his report after pretending that he’d thrown himself through the window to land in an ungainly heap, waking both of them, but he had never forgotten. He also couldn’t see _who_ Thorin should have supposedly set his eyes on, which made him even more firmly convinced that a terrible misunderstanding was the root of the whole debacle.

Nori idly considered whether he should devise a punishment for the King who hurt his friend, but the memory of Thorin’s grey face – not unlike the look on Dwalin’s face post-Throne Room, in fact – made him reconsider. Even with his nastiest non-lethal poisons, he did not think he could hurt the King more than the idea that he had killed his One. Slipping unseen from Balin’s house, Nori mentally compiled his report for Thorin as he ate his breakfast and tried to answer Ori’s questions. No one had seen Thorin yet this morning, which did not surprise him, though he was slightly surprised that Dori was still guarding the King’s door like a mama bear with her cubs. Fíli and Kíli were sitting on either side of Ori, looking gloomier than Nori had believed them capable of.

 

* * *

 

 

“Fair morning, Thorin Uzbad,” Nurtalëon greeted, closing the door behind him and looking over the dwarf before him. Thorin was sat beside the bed where Nori had put Dwalin’s unconscious body, his hand resting on the warrior’s chest and his eyes tracking each breath as though it might be his last. He looked terrible. Thorin’s eyes were red, his hair was a tangle of snarls from his fingers running agitatedly through the long locks and his fine garments from the Trial had been carelessly tossed in a corner along with a tunic that looked to have been torn apart. Dwalin, on the other hand, looked to be in good health. His cheeks had lost the pallor that had clung to him when he had stumbled blindly into the stones the day before, and though he still looked less than perfectly healthy, it was nothing more than a few good meals and proper rest would fix.

“Nurtalëon Ushmar,” Thorin croaked in acknowledgement, though his eyes never left Dwalin’s serene face. He visibly pulled himself together, hating to show such weakness to anyone he barely knew – even if the Elf was more tolerable than most of his race. “How is Aunt Geira?”

“Asleep once more. She will be weak for some time, but suffer no permanent injury.” Nurtalëon replied.

“She woke up?” Thorin asked, sounding like his hopes were dying. Dwalin had not stirred all night.

“Long enough to tell me to go home,” Nurtalåeon chuckled. Thorin’s barely managed a grimace in return. “Did you understand what Aiwë did?” Nurtalëon asked, carefully. He had wondered last night, but it had not been the time to ask. Thorin shook his head.

“He looks like he is merely sleeping, but he will not wake,” he whispered hoarsely. Nurtalëon stepped up, placing his hand comfortingly on Thorin’s shoulder and allowing the King to hide the tears that threatened.

“One who goes to the Stones in despair and pain may… _choose_ … to give themselves into the Stone. It is knowledge that died with Khazad-dûm, for it is only shared with the most Senior Singers. So many died during the days of the Fall, I believe Aiwë and the few Singers who survived thought it best not to offer that way out to those who had lost their Ones along with their homes. She was Regent then, Aiwë, for young Thorin the first, until he came of age. Dwarrow do not believe in seeking death by their own hands, though many will simply give up the will to live after such profound loss and end up dying soon after either way, through illness or recklessness in battle.”

“Dwalin wanted to die?” Thorin could hardly force the words past his teeth, his whole body shaking with fear and grief and anger, roiling in his gut.

“Not precisely, as I understood it. He sought peace. A respite from the pain of watching…” Nurtalëon trailed off, unsure how to explain what he had gathered from the vague thoughts Aiwë had forced into his head through their bond.

“Watching me, you mean,” Thorin shuddered, “I did this.”

“Aiwë shared some of what she felt with me, and I think not, Thorin Uzbad. I think, instead, you must once more look to the darkness that has clung to this Mountain overlong. In you, the Dragon’s spells triggered insatiable lust for gold, I heard, but what of your companions? Aiwë has not spoken to them all, but she did convey to me a sense of worry that you might all have been affected more than you thought, in less visible ways than you yourself suffered.” His words, though they did not remove the guilt Thorin felt, made only too much sense, the King thought. Had he not said as much to Nori, himself? ‘It was unlike the Dori we have come to know in our travels…’. Kíli had not been his usual self either, and though he had originally considered it part of finding his One, perhaps there was more there he had not seen, caught up in his own worries. Bofur, normally the most jovial of fellows, had been moping about most uncharacteristically. Balin, certainly, had showed the greatest lapse in his usually sensible judgement, placing Dwalin in the Throne Room and forcing him to relive the worst day of Thorin’s life.

“Even if you are correct, I am still the reason my-“ Thorin stopped himself ruthlessly. He did not have the right to call Dwalin his One, not anymore. “Dwalin would not be here, if not for me.”

“That is so.” Nurtalëon agreed. Sometimes mortals were so _rigid_ , he thought, determined to wallow in guilt. “Though he is merely sleeping now. With the amount of time he has spent in the Stones as I watched, he has much sleep to catch up on.”

“So if he is not… dying…” Thorin felt the first glimmer of hope flare at this confirmation; he had truly believed that Dwalin’s heart might simply just stop at some point. “What did Aunt Geira _do_?”

“She offered him peaceful oblivion, she said. It is like and unlike what he sought. While he sleeps, Dwalin will not remember the dark thoughts that made him seek the Stones. When he wakes, he will remember the things he thought, but the pain will be blunted, and you will have a chance to change things.” Nurtalëon explained as best he could. Translating pain-tinted imagery and half thoughts breezing across his soul was hardly an accurate way of gaining information. “Bear in mind that Aiwë is not a Singer. What she did, she should not have been able to do, so it might not work as intended.” He warned, though Thorin hardly seemed to hear him. His attention had once more been entirely consumed with watching Dwalin, which made Nurtalëon chuckle to himself. He had rarely interacted with Dwarrow since the death of Thorin’s namesake, but there was a certain comfort in the fact that the race was so consistent. He almost envied that kind of love, burning so fiercely, though at times it scared him to see how possessive it was, too.  “I bid thee farewell, Thorin Uzbad. I do not think we shall meet again. _Namarië_.”

“Farewell, Lord Nurtalëon,” Thorin said, looking up at his guest for the first time since the Elf had entered. Nurtalëon bowed politely, his hand forming a fist over his heart, before he turned to open the door and disappeared. Thorin sighed. “Please come back to me, love,” he whispered, bending to press his head against Dwalin’s for a moment of comfort.

 

* * *

 

 

“A-Atheg?” Rhonith asked hoarsely, her voice so quiet only elven ears would hear. Thranduil sucked in a gasp, surprised by how much he had missed the simple address.

“I am here, sellig.” He whispered, hardly daring to touch her emaciated form, but reaching to stroke gently across her ear nonetheless. Rhonith’s eyes remained closed, but her mouth curved into an approximation of a smile. Drops of blood dotted her cracked lips. “I missed you.” _More than I knew I could_ , he thought, feeling her paper-thin skin beneath his fingers.

“Leg…” whatever she had wanted to say was lost in a tired sigh, but Legolas took her hand nonetheless, staring intently at her face, smoothened by sleep once again.

“She remembers us,” Legolas whispered, wild joy colouring his words. Thranduil smiled softly, running his fingers across his son’s ear.

“It will take her a long time to regain her physical strength, ionneg.” The Elvenking warned, though he might as well have spoken to the wall; Legolas didn’t hear a word, lost in his soaring relief.

 

* * *

 

 

When Bifur returned to the King’s study, he was carrying breakfast for Dori and a full pitcher of warm water. Handing over the bowl with a small nod and receiving a smile in return, Bifur knocked once, before opening the door, continuing to the door of Thorin’s bedroom. He didn’t make a sound, simply taking in the room.

Thorin was still shirtless, the smooth roundness of his shoulder without the arm attached slightly startling at first glance. None of them had seen him – bar Óin and Balin – without a tunic before. He sat, hair tangled by nervous fingers carding through the dark strands, on a chair that looked like it was the least comfortable seat he had been able to find. His blue eyes were fixed on Dwalin’s face, his expression unreadable even as the set of his shoulders radiated guilt. Bifur hummed softly. The stone floor responded, greeting him like a friend, but the joy of the mountain was dimmed by the dark emotions that pervaded this room. Looking at Dwalin told Bifur nothing new; his friend was sleeping, as Geira had said, and Bifur agreed.

“Bifur,” Thorin sighed. “If you’re here to remonstrate with me… please don’t.” Bifur shook his head, though Thorin didn’t look up to see it. Singing a soothing tune, he poured the water into a shallow bowl and dropped a cloth in Thorin’s lap. Thorin looked up sharply, staring bemused at Bifur’s calm expression. “Your solution is telling me I smell?” he asked, incredulous outrage suddenly morphing into hysterical laughter. Bifur pushed him towards the bowl. Carefully signing – Thorin was far less adept at Iglishmêk than Dwalin or Nori, who were arguably the best in the Company – Bifur managed to convey that he was not afraid to hand Thorin over to Dori to be mothered at. Faced with that threat, Thorin scowled, but cleaned himself up while Bifur set to straightening the room a bit. Holding up the remains of Dwalin’s tunic, he raised an eloquently bushy eyebrow in Thorin’s direction. The King did not blush, though his cheeks glowed slightly. “I thought… I don’t know what I thought,” Thorin shook his head at himself. “I needed to feel him… alive. The elf said Dwalin will live, but…”

 _He.Love.You._ Bifur kept his motions slow, portraying his sincerity.

“Aye… he’s just not convinced that I love _him_ ,” Thorin replied wryly, pulling a fresh shirt on. Then his face crumpled, as the words registered. “I don’t understand how he could think I could ever want another, Bifur, I just… don’t. Why would I…” he trailed off into silence once more, shaking his head.

 

* * *

 

 

Dori appreciated the breakfast, feeling more than a little tired from standing guard all night – not that anyone had tried to reach the King since she had sent away Balin and Dáin – but shook herself awake. Deciding that Bifur could probably handle anything that might happen, Dori decided to get started on the day’s work. First, she checked on Ori and the two Princes, who seemed to cheer up slightly at the news that Dwalin would probably wake soon, and their elleth aunt would be fine if weak for some time. After soothing the fears of their youngest members, Dori went to work out her own frustrations, tossing broken stones into carts with a vengeance that seemed at odds with her carefully maintained appearance. The dwarrow around her – some of Dáin’s soldiers – wisely left her to it, though she caught a few remarking on the strength of her arms with awe.

 

* * *

 

 

Bifur felt slightly annoyed by the conversation barrier – it was far easier to communicate with Dwalin, who’d been the one to teach him Iglishmêk Guards’ cant when he trained in the barracks, or Nori, though he used a heavy mix of thieves’, miners’, and guards’ signs. _You,_ he began, ensuring that Thorin’s attention was on his hands, _see. Negative. You. In._ There wasn’t a sign for madness, but Thorin’s scowl proved that he understood Bifur’s meaning.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin had never felt unable to reason out Dwalin’s behaviour before, long familiarity and companionship meant he knew his love as well as he knew himself – or so he had thought, before they reached Erebor and all his worst fears came to pass. Thorin wondered if this was a different kind of madness, though he had never thought his love was obsessive like the greed for gold had been. He did not quite know if he trusted himself to know the difference, keeping his temper in check, his self-control an iron fist even in the face of the provocations of the trade negotiations. He had scared himself the other night, when he had lost it in the forges, but he remembered every moment since, which went some way towards soothing the fear that his ugly greed would rear its head once more. Thorin found himself wishing he could speak to Dís. Dwalin would have been preferable, his love – his _One_ , dammit – often had a way of making Thorin’s head fall into sensible alignment when he’d stared himself blind with brooding on a problem. Dís was blunt, much like Dwalin, but she would have been haranguing them both, Thorin knew, probably since Smaug’s defeat. The thought made a slight smile appear on his face; he could almost hear her voice in his head, a mix of fondness, exasperation, and spitting anger as she used her words like knives, cutting away all his tangled emotions and reaching the core of the problem. ‘ _If Dwalin thinks you don’t love him, you need to show him why he is wrong because we both know he stole your heart before any of us were full-grown.’_ Dís-in-his-head huffed, whacking at him with her wooden spoon before pulling him in for a gentle hug.

When he was presentable once more, Thorin studied the Cantor. “Tell me what I was like,” he asked, making a decision after long deliberation. “Tell me… You have always been Dwalin’s friend,” he paused, gesturing towards the sleeping warrior, “tell me why.” He needed to know, even if knowing might just incinerate whatever heart he had left.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, Bifur had written down what he remembered of those dark days, though he was certain his own recollection was littered with blocks of time when he had simply been in the Treasury. When he was done, he placed the letter on Thorin’s desk, face-down, and tapped the King’s shoulder. Thorin had returned to his seat, his fingers gently running across Dwalin’s tattooed hands.

“Thank you,” Thorin nodded. Bifur just smiled, patting his remaining arm gently. When he turned to leave, Thorin spoke once more. “Will you ask Dori to take care of my Aunt? As Geira’s claimed siblings, her care should be the responsibility of the ‘Ri’s.” Humming the sound he usually used to mean acceptance, Bifur nodded, leaving quietly.

 

* * *

 

Fíli was at a loss. Balin had looked at him when he’d appeared for breakfast, and Fíli had known there was no point in going to the Uzugbad for answers. Instead, he found himself roaming the corridors, unable to stomach anyone’s company. Drifting aimlessly, Fíli found himself in the quarters that had once been Thorin’s, ducking away and reaching the room the Thorin had told them belonged to his late Uncle Frerin. It was as good a place as any to sit and think, and so Fíli did, studying the book of bedtime tales left on the small table by the bed, the practise weapons stored on the rack along the wall – there was a bow, which Fíli recognised as Elven make, though sized for a smaller body, a child’s toy. He wondered if Amadel had taught her son how to shoot, like she had taught Kíli when he showed an aptitude for archery. Sometimes, Fíli thought, their family kept too many secrets, answered too few questions, hoarded memories like precious treasure instead of sharing them with the next generation. He had been told that he resembled Frerin, but they had had no pictures of him in the house, so Fíli didn’t know if it was true. He had always thought he looked like his Adad, though Víli’s moustache had been longer and only partially braided. Sitting in this room, he tried to picture the life its owner had had, before a dragon tore his world apart. Then he began to explore, opening cupboards and drawers, finding old pieces of paper with odd doodles and small scribbles. One drawing in particular, made him smile. It depicted what he could only guess was Thorin – based on the dark hair and the large sword – staring lovingly at Dwalin. Thorin’s heart had been painted on top of the dwarf figure, with arrows pointing in the direction of the second figure, whose head sported an impressive warrior’s crest and a ferocious scowl, almost daring anyone to steal the cookie he was holding. Aside from the childish additions, Frerin had had an eye for drawing, Fíli realised, much like himself. He spent the rest of the day searching out more drawings, his favourite being a picture of Thorin – recognisable even as a 12-year-old – sleeping, his mouth hanging open and one arm curled around a dark-haired pebble Fíli was sure was his own Amad.

 

* * *

 

First, Bifur went to the food halls looking for Dori, his own belly reminding him that lunch would be welcome. The lace-maker – whose value was far higher as a rubble remover than a maker of fine clothes at present – was eating lunch with Bofur and Bombur, and Bifur joined them with a quiet smile. When they were almost done eating, he signed across the table to Bofur, who nodded once and dragged off his brother.

 _I need. Speak. You._ Bifur signed, carefully watching the tailor’s pretty face to ensure that Dori understood him. There was no Iglishmêk sign for half-elf Dwarf, of course, so he improvised with the sign for Dwarf and added a touch to his own ears. Dori nodded.

“Geira needs something?” The tailor studied the Cantor shrewdly.

This, Bifur thought, was what he really liked about his companions. Most of them – even Dori, who knew no more than the basics of Iglishmêk – understood what he wanted to say, even if they simply guessed half his sentences. Signing an affirmation, Bifur got to his feet. _Armour._ That one, however, made Dori frown – there were only so many signs after all, so a lot of Iglishmêk relied on connotations. Bifur sighed, plucking at his own sleeve and making the sign for Geira again until Dori’s face lit up with understanding.

“Ohh, Geira needs new clothes? I’m sure I could modify some of the things that Princess Frís left behind…” Bifur nodded and when Dori got up, he followed his Companion all the way to the Royal Wing. When Dori tried to hand him the shift they found in one of Frís’ trunks – old, but the cedar chests had kept the clothes inside from decaying – Bifur shook his head, instead pulling on one of his braids before tugging on the corresponding one on Dori’s head and signing a simple _I. Know._

 

“But how?!” Dori gaped, her hand flying to the braid that proclaimed her a First Son protectively. Bifur smiled enigmatically, singing a soft note and touching the green stone of the wall. Dori was flabbergasted. “The _Mountain_ told you I’m a dam?” she asked, incredulous. She almost wanted to protest, but in a way it was a relief that she did not have to deny it. Bifur would keep her secret for as long as she desired.

 

 _Stone. Knowledge. Heart._ Bifur signed, which was a horrible substitute for an explanation, even if he was trying to explain something that was impossible to put into words she would understand. Bifur frowned, but Dori looked like it made sense to _her_ , so he just nodded, pushing the bundle of linen back into her hands and dragging her out of the door.

“Do you actually know where we’re going?” Dori wondered, after some minutes of walking along deserted corridors. Bifur laughed. “Of course,” Dori sighed, feeling a little sheepish, “the Mountain tells you?” she guessed. Bifur hummed. It wasn’t as though he could use his connection with the Mountain to find _specific_ people, not really, it was more a case of his knowing where the souls that did not feel Dwarven were clustered. Currently, that was somewhere below and to his left, which he thought was kitchen levels, and guessed to be the baker-lady. Another cluster could only be comprised of King Thranduil – who felt quite unique to Bifur’s way of sensing things – and some soldiers he didn’t know but who had probably been out hunting Orcs or the like. What Bifur was headed towards, on the opposite side of the Royal Palace, was the last cluster, made of two souls. One felt distinctly Elvish, while the other was a peculiar muddled combination he recognized as Geira.

 

* * *

 

When they reached the right corridor, they only managed to find the right room because Thranduil had left the door ajar behind him when he left. The Elvenking had realised, as he stood to find Rusgon and Lord Balin – he didn’t really expect to resume negotiations today, but it never hurt to know what was going on – that he had no idea how Nurtalëon had made the door appear the night before. Worried that there would be no way to return, he left the heavy stone-decorated door open.

Inside Geira’s room, Legolas had taken Nurtalëon’s seat by the bed. He looked up when Dori cleared her throat. Bifur began singing softly, not knowing whether it would help, but deciding that making the room’s stones feel peaceful was unlikely to be harmful. He turned to face the wall, examining the beautiful mural that covered it.

 

“We should have brought water,” Dori remarked, her strong streak of practicality rearing its head. “I’ll go fetch some.” Leaving the old shift on an unoccupied chair, Dori turned back around to head for the kitchens. Even though her skills were nothing like Nori’s, who could spot faults to such a degree that he could dance across unstable rock like it was a polished ballroom floor, nor like Bofur’s, attuned to precious metals, Dori was more than capable of finding her way through Erebor. She had never discovered a particular talent in her senses, but then again, she had never needed to develop it beyond being able to know where she was and where she was going, and she was quite content with that. Having watched Bofur swoon above the richest gold vein in Erebor history – and a few times even after the dragon was dead – Dori felt that her own senses were definitely more, well, sensible. Taking a detour around the Ruby Ward, Dori gestured for Óin to follow her.

 

* * *

 

“You’re… Bifur, right?” Legolas tried, pleased when the wild-looking Dwarf nodded. “You made Thalawen that flower.” Bifur hummed in response. “You do not speak?” Shaking his head, Bifur continued singing. “But you can sing. Did you make an oath?” Legolas asked, mildly worried. Bifur shook his head negative again. He had heard of the Princeling’s oath, but his own lack of Khuzdul or Common Westron had nothing to do with broken oaths. “Erfaron can’t speak either,” Legolas said, which Bifur had already realised before they reached Thranduil’s Halls. He snorted a light chuckle. “No one knows why, exactly, but he hasn’t spoken a word since he was a child. We use signs to communicate with him. Do you do the same? Or can your companions understand your singing?” Bifur made the sign for elf and silence, but Legolas didn’t seem to understand Iglishmêk, and broke out in hearty laughter at the sight. Bifur raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Sorry,” Legolas said, slightly sheepish, “but those signs were… er… rude.” He lapsed into silence after that, and Bifur returned his attention to the Song of Peace.

 

* * *

 

“Well, I can see why the Elf put her in this room,” Óin said, studying the intricate decorations and the large attached balcony. The blue and green and silver colours that Frís had used made the room light and airy, as Elven as a room of stone could be, he reckoned, turning his attention to the patient.

“You’re going to wash her?” Legolas asked, when Dori stepped forward with warm water and soap.

“Of course,” Dori replied, because, really, that was obvious, even to an Elf, she felt. “That’s why Bifur and Óin are looking away. Giving her some modesty.” Dori’s pointed remark flew right past Legolas’ head. She sighed. “You should not be watching either, Master Elf. I don’t care if you’ve known her since childhood – that sight is not for your eyes unless she gives you permission.”

“But you’re a male too, why are you allowed to see her?” Legolas had dutifully turned around, moving to the open balcony doors and staring across the vast snowfields, but he couldn’t keep the petulant note out of his voice. Dori chuckled to herself, feeling deeply akin to Nori – their shared blood was not often evident, but Dori had her own mischievous side – when she replied breezily:

“Why, Master Elf, whoever told you that?” With brisk but careful motions, Dori completed her task, pulling Geira’s unresisting body into the thin shift and resituating her beneath the blankets. It was obviously not her size, but it’d do until her own clothes had been cleaned. Dori turned in time to witness the Elven Prince gaping like a fish on land. She laughed. Óin got to work immediately, taking copious notes as he dribbled a few medicines into Geira’s slack mouth.

When Legolas regained his equilibrium, he frowned, “But no one ever said that not all of you were male. If we had known, you would have been housed in a different room to the others.” Dori chuckled.

“Dwarrowdams do not usually dress like dams while travelling, nor do we wear the braids that mark us as daughters or wives. We need no special treatment and frankly, even if you had known, I would not have accepted being separated from my kin in your Halls. Most of the Company are either unaware or too polite to pry.” Or scared, Dori thought with a wry smirk. Thorin was aware, of course, and her brothers. Bifur, evidently, had always known that she thought of herself as female, and Óin had to know for medical reasons, but Dori doubted the rest of them knew.

“When will she wake properly?” Legolas asked, hovering anxiously in the balcony doorway. The elf seemed unconsciously incapable of leaving the open air, Dori noted, feeling a stab of sympathy at the thought. For a creature used to the open forest – even if the sensible _Woodland_ _Elves_ at least lived in caves – it had to be peculiar to be inside a Dwarf Mountain.

“That, I cannot say,” Óin replied, after Legolas had repeated the question into his new ear trumpet. “After all, I have never treated a half-Dwarf before, but I would hazard a guess at three to four days, maybe less. Her body needs time to recover what it lost to the Stones.”

When Legolas opened his mouth to ask again, Dori interjected calmly, “I told you, she is my sister. It falls to either me or one of my brothers to take responsibility for her care outside of medicinal needs, which are the purview of Óin.” The Elf closed his mouth once more. He looked slightly perturbed that Dori read him so easily, but Dori had raised Nori as much as their Amad, and she knew how to read _him_. The Elf was not that different, Dori mused.

Legolas stayed until morning, only interrupted once by Nori and once by Dori, who came by with the potions Óin had prescribed for keeping her healthy without proper sustenance, and – in Dori’s case – who also brought him a tray of supper. Legolas smiled, grateful that he did not have to leave just yet, and when he had finished his meal, he returned to sitting in a chair by the bed, holding her hand gently.

 

 

[278] May your paths be green and the breeze behind you

[279] May the sun shine upon your path(formal)

[280] A dwarf that chooses to take a wife must guard her as his greatest treasure. Blood over stone. (Family is more important than anything.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next up: the resolution of this whole Dworin debacle I got myself into, yay. (Is it bad that I have a thing for people yelling at Thorin for being daft?)


	52. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dwalin feels bad, Thorin also feels bad, and Dís would be very disappointed with both of them. Also there is Thorin using words.

The first thing to register in Dwalin’s mind was the feeling of lying on something soft. Dwalin felt floaty, disconnected somehow, like he had sometimes felt when he’d been fed milk of the poppy for the pain of one wound or another. He was idly wondering what had happened to the song that had woven itself into his dreams, when his ears registered a sound, but he didn’t recognize it. He was covered in a fur blanket which smelled slightly musty, but was nice and warm, soft against his bare chest. His boots had been removed at some point, Dwalin realised. His tunic was missing too, though he was still wearing his breeches, which was a bit odd as he usually slept naked when not on the road. The sound morphed until he could vaguely hear voices, though he couldn’t seem to open his eyes to glare at the two dwarrow who were arguing vehemently somewhere off to the side. Their words were muffled and halfway lost in the fog of dreams that clung to him. He couldn’t find the desire or energy to wake up further, drifting in a hazy state of content.

“You weren’t going to do anything!” Dwalin thought that was Balin speaking – snarling, more accurately – his normally even voice an angry hiss.

“It wasn’t YOUR place-” Thorin was roaring mad, but there was an undertone in his voice that Dwalin didn’t like. Thorin couldn’t be… _scared_ … right? Mulling that over for an eternity or two, he missed half of Balin’s angry retort.

“- wasting time! Thorin, I _know_ what-“ Balin was equally furious, apparently. Dwalin wondered what had happened. Dwalin wondered if he’d need to split the two apart before it came to blows, but his thoughts were too diffuse, too foggy, and he had to give up trying to rouse himself to intervene.

“YOU MADE IT WORSE!” Thorin bellowed. Dwalin couldn’t make out his brother’s reply, if there was one, but when Thorin spoke next, he sounded almost defeated. “I know why you did this, Balin, and – perhaps – some day I might even forgive you… but right now, I don’t even want to look at you.” Dwalin wanted to frown at that; they’d all had rows over the years, of course, but never something like this. What in the name of Durin had Balin been up to?

“Thorin, I-” Balin tried, but Thorin interrupted him smoothly.

“Just… go away, Balin.” Thorin said. A door closed. Silence fell once more, and Dwalin slowly fell asleep to the sound of Thorin pacing across the stone floor.

 

When Dwalin woke up properly, it was nighttime, based on the lack of light in the room he found himself in; the banked embers of the fireplace only giving off enough light for a Dwarf to see a hand before him. He felt curiously content; far more so than he had since they left Laketown, but though he thought the sensation odd, it did not precisely concern him. He was lying on his side, comfortably warm. The next thing he registered was the warmth of the hand resting on his chest, and the arm wrapped around his ribcage. The hand was idly plucking at the steel bar in his nipple, which told him the warmth at his back was Thorin; the only dwarf who’d dare cuddle with him like this, and the only one he knew who had a tendency to play with his body while asleep, as evidenced by the deep breathing behind him, the snores intimately familiar.

Dwalin felt puzzled. There was something wrong with this situation, though his mind seemed to be made of dandelion fluff and coming up blank as to the reason. Thinking deeply, Dwalin tried to work out what was off about where and how he found himself. He remembered walking into the Throne Room for the Trial, catching sight of the way the silver in Thorin’s hair caught the light and feeling sad. He had felt a measure of pride in Fíli’s performance, and slight amusement at the comments he overheard after Ori finished reading the long list of their Elf’s titles. He did not remember taking his place as Balin had all but ordered him to do; convinced that Dwalin’s testimony would be necessary. Dwalin frowned. He had argued with Balin right up until his older brother had gone to take his position as arbiter for the King, not wanting to talk about that day in front of a crowd of outsiders. None of the things he remembered happening, drawing a blank after listening to the words of Legolas – who might have a future as an actor, Dwalin had thought – explained why he did not remember the rest of his day. It certainly did not explain why he found himself in Thorin’s bedroom with the King himself wrapped around him like a warm blanket, his breath stirring the hair on Dwalin’s neck with every exhale. When he tried to move away, Thorin’s arm tightened around him as he murmured unhappily into his neck. His fingers kept rubbing back and forth as well, which was slightly distracting to Dwalin’s mind, but not enough to make him forget the odd feeling of wrongness. Had he suffered a head injury? He didn’t feel sore, simply hazy…

“What happened?” he whispered. If he hadn’t known him as well as he did, Dwalin might have been fooled into thinking that the dwarf behind him remained asleep, but he knew better.

“You’re awake?” Thorin whispered back, obviously relieved. The next thing Dwalin knew, he was on his back, staring into Thorin’s frantic face, as the King Under the Mountain balanced on one arm above him. “Dwalin!” Dwalin did not know what to say, barely registering the question amid his own whirling thoughts. Thorin looked _old_. Pain had carved lines in his face that had not been there the last time Dwalin had looked. The silver streaks in his dark hair had grown, but it was the dark circles under his reddened eyes that scared Dwalin. This Thorin was grieving, shadows haunting his Durin-blue eyes. “Dwalin!” Thorin repeated, sounding almost desperate. Dwalin frowned.

“What’s wrong? Is one of the lads harmed?” Confusion filled his soul as he stared at the face he knew better than his own. Thorin simply crumpled. Dwalin’s breath left him in a great huff of air when Thorin collapsed on his chest, but he did not complain, feeling the heaving sobs of his beloved soak into his skin with a measure of fear. “Thorin,” he tried, running his large palms down Thorin’s back in an attempt at reassurance – of what, he wasn’t entirely sure – still trying to work out why he felt so wrong-footed. It felt like he had been walking down stairs, and found that there was a step less than he had thought, making his mind stumble along the path of memory. “Thorin, why are you crying?” The question was valid, to Dwalin’s mind; he could count on his fingers the times he had ever seen Thorin cry. The last time had been the morning they had found Frís in her bed, dead in the night, but the last time before that had been the day Kíli was born. Humming a gentle tune, he kept up his slow caresses, feeling more and more confused.

“You nearly died,” Thorin mumbled into his neck, and suddenly Dwalin’s memory returned with a vengeance. His hands tightened on Thorin’s sides with enough force that he’d leave bruises as he nearly threw the King or Erebor off him. With a wounded noise, Dwalin stumbled from the bed, shaky legs holding him up through sheer force of will. Leaning heavily against the stone wall, he stared at Thorin who was staring up at him from the rumpled blankets.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Dwalin roared, anger masking the hurt he felt, preventing him from seeing the effect his words had on Thorin, who recoiled as if struck. “Where is he? For that matter, where am I, and how dare you play with me like this?!” he continued, gesturing to his own half-naked body and Thorin’s lack of a shirt.

“Where is who?” Thorin asked, feeling lost. He had read Bifur’s letter, but he failed to realise what Dwalin meant. “This is my bedroom, and I-” his words came out a half-strangled sob, “I needed to feel you _alive,_ Dwalin.”

The warrior just stared. Thorin had rearranged himself to sit on his knees, but made no move to get closer when Dwalin scowled at him. “What are you playing at?” he whispered, almost silent with fury.

“I’m not ‘playing’,” Thorin retorted, beginning to feel angry himself.

“Then why am I _here_?” Dwalin hissed. Thorin flinched back involuntarily, gaping at the sheer menace that was rolling off Dwalin in almost visible waves of fury. Suddenly, his own temper surged. Thorin jumped off the bed, using the brief element of surprise to press his lips against Dwalin’s in a kiss that was almost more violence than love. Dwalin groaned under the onslaught, wrapping his large hands in Thorin’s dark hair. _Yes!_ Thorin thought, pulling Dwalin closer, wrapping his arm around his middle. Dwalin’s fingers tightened almost painfully. “ _Thorin!_ ” he moaned, and suddenly Thorin found himself pushed away, staring at Dwalin as they both breathed hard in the silent room. “Why do you do this to me?” Dwalin asked, in a voice that Thorin had never heard before, a pleading, plaintive sound that tore at his heart. “Why do you…”

“I love you,” Thorin interrupted, but Dwalin winced, letting go of Thorin’s hair instead of pulling him back to his mouth.

“No, you don’t,” Dwalin whispered sadly, cupping the side of his face. Thorin felt the bottom drop out of his world. It was one thing to be told by another, but to hear _Dwalin_ state it, so matter-of-factly as to leave no room for doubt of the veracity of his claim… it hurt more than being stabbed by Azog. Thorin’s objections died in his throat, incapable of rising past the lump that blocked his airways. “Thorin, I’ve no doubt you care for me, after all our years together,” Dwalin continued, his eyes closed.

"Please, Dwalin, tell me how to fix what I have broken.” Thorin wanted to cry, as he watched the keeper of his heart turn away from him once more. “Lie, if you must, but, please, tell me that you still love me."

“I will never stop loving you. Through war and blood and madness, I will love you, Thorin.” Dwalin’s voice was certainty itself, but Thorin heard the notes of pain that underscored the words, pain he had caused and did not know how to heal. “I,” Dwalin’s agonized grimace preceded the words Thorin had never dreamed he’d hear, “release you-”

“NO!” he shouted, too loud in the silence of the night. Dwalin continued as though he had not spoken.

“-from any promises made between us. May you find what you seek with Master Baggins.” Dwalin’s shoulders slumped, making him look as defeated as he had that day in the Throne Room. Thorin’s mind was spinning.

Shaking his head, he turned, facing Dwalin who was rattling the door, which Thorin had locked after Balin had left his quarters, in hopes of no further disturbances. “Master Baggins?” he asked, completely confused. Nothing in Bifur’s note or Nori’s report had indicated that he had shown more than fondness for the Hobbit during his madness, certainly not to the degree Dwalin was implying. The King of Erebor stood frozen, trying to search his scattered memories of the past few weeks before the Battle, trying to find what evidence Dwalin had seen, had believed to be undue affection for the small creature.

“I saw the smiles, the jewels, the way you would take him aside and whisper in dark corners. I see you still, searching him out when you walk into the Hall for meals, smiling when you find him.” Thorin couldn’t breathe. His lungs did not fill with air, and for a moment, he thought he was drowning. “You broke us, Thorin.” Dwalin whispered. “Let me out.”

“You’re wrong.” His heart hammering in his throat, Thorin spoke decisively. Dwalin sighed tiredly.

“A shirt of mithril mail, Thorin,” Dwalin replied, resting his head against the cool stone of the door. He knew there would be no escaping until he either found the key or Thorin unlocked it. “And that was only the most obvious of your courting attempts.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Thorin couldn’t keep the note of pleading from entering his voice. He wanted to scream at Dwalin. _Please, please, just LOOK at me!_ “He was the only one the shirt would fit. Even in my madness, I tried to protect our weakest members, you cannot fault me that,” he begged. Dwalin did not turn around, his shoulders tense. “Please, Dwalin, I do not understand. Why do you shy away from me if I have not destroyed your love with my carelessness? Tell me how I can make it up to you. If I could, I would wipe that day in the throne room from your memory, if only you would smile again. Please, believe me.” Thorin pleaded, at his wit’s end. He did not even care to dash away the tears that fell from his eyes.

“Don't you see, Thorin!” Dwalin nearly screamed, punching the door. “You were dying! You were dying and you didn't even look at me! How can I believe that you love me when you would not even look at me _as you died_ …”

“ _Because,_ I was dying,” he said, the words laced with the pain he had felt lying on the ice, expecting his life to leave him. “I was dying, and I knew it… I knew that _you_ knew it! Dwalin, only once before have I thought I was going to die and… that day, I wanted my last sight to be your face.” Thorin sighed. “I knew you were my One, my Heart, my love, even then, and I could see it in your face that you knew it too. I have never seen you look so broken, so despondent, and that image is burned into my mind even though I was out of my head with fever and milk of the poppy at the time. I swore an oath that night, beloved. I swore that I would never again put that look in your eyes.” Thorin took a step closer, not quite daring to touch Dwalin’s tense shoulder even though he reached for him. “I could not… I could not bear to see it again,” he whispered, picturing the terrible grief on Dwalin’s face and shuddering with the memory. He forced himself to keep speaking hoarsely, putting his heart in his words, in a small hope that he could explain what had happened that day on the icy river. “I knew I was dying, and I could not bear to see it on your face, amrâlimê. I looked at the sky, I looked at Bilbo, because I could not bear to have my last memory before I woke in Itdendûm be your tortured eyes. Don't you see, Dwalin? I wanted to remember you, my fierce halwmugre, remember you fighting, smiling, loving. I did not look at you, for knowing I had put that look on your face... it almost broke me once, and that is what finally broke through the haze of my madness when you left me in the Throne Room.” He admitted, wishing that he could turn Dwalin away from the door, see his words reach his heart. “Oh, Dwalin, I had only just seen that look, the one that spoke of you breaking, how could I stand to see it again and let it stand as my memory of you?” Thorin was crying openly now, something he had not done since Kíli was born. “I love you. You are my heart's song, my love, amrâlimê. Please. Let me have my last memory be your smile.” Pausing he let the plea hang in the air between them, feeling raw and wounded. Dís-in-his-head was prodding him, making him continue his disjointed train of thought, his confession. “You remember that night in that cave in 2802? With the blizzard and no food or firewood?” Thorin asked, breaking the silence. Dwalin nodded, thought he did not turn. His shoulders tensed further with the memory.

“Aye, you and Dís glaring at each other to drown out the sound of your teeth chattering.” Dwalin replied, slightly confused. Thorin wanted to cheer at gaining a response other than tight muscles but he forced himself to keep speaking.

“And you told her, ‘Balin is cold, come help me cuddle him warm.’” Thorin said, a smile in his voice.

“What about it, Thorin,” Dwalin asked tiredly.

“That was when I decided that I'd marry you or no one. The night I realised I love you.” Thorin said decisively. Dís-in-his-head cheered.

“Ye dinnae mean that, Thorin.” Dwalin retorted, after long minutes of staring at the door. He turned, leaning against the finely carved stone and staring at Thorin as though he could read his mind.

“Aye, I do. Was the night I decided what this would look like,” he replied sagely, holding up a small silver bead, the etchings catching the light from the fire. “Took me years to get together enough silver for a bead, and then I spent about 10 years actually making it, melting it down over and over when it didn't come out perfect.”

“You...you've never told me that.” Thorin felt a frisson of hope at the way Dwalin’s eyes were following the glimmer of silver.

Turning the bead over and over, Thorin chuckled. “Tell you just how pathetically I pined for you over the years? I was… too proud, perhaps, at first, and later… later it didn’t matter.”

“You didn’t think I cared for you?” Dwalin frowned. Thorin pulled him away from the door, pushing his unresisting body onto the chair by his desk.

“No, I hadn't dared hope you felt the same.” Thorin admitted quietly. “Sure, you were my friend and my bedmate now and again, but I… Dwalin, I was hardly worthy of such a dwarf as you in my _bed_ , let alone worthy of your heart. When it was finished, I carried it in my pocket until you returned from your caravan job. You came home with this,” he said, tracing a scar above Dwalin's hip. “I was terrified; you were so beautiful, so fierce, and I saw how many wanting looks you got. I was...scared you would find better offers.”

Dwalin made a deflated noise, a snort of disbelief, but Thorin continued undaunted. Now that he had begun, it felt almost cathartic to let go of secrets long-held like this. Just him and Dwalin, alone in the night.

“But you came to me, a little drunk from celebrating your return, and you kissed me and told me you'd missed me and took me into your bed. And I wanted to ask you, but I was lost in the moment and all I managed when speech returned to me was a feeble 'I love you'.” Thorin shook his head, tutting at his younger self.

“I remember. You panicked,” Dwalin chuckled, “and began to get dressed again. I wondered why you were so nervous, because I thought it was obvious I felt the same. So I pulled you back to me.”

“You kissed me,” Thorin whispered, “soft and gentle like you'd never kissed me before. And then you whispered that you loved me too and would I _please_ go to sleep because Balin would wake us both early…” he uttered a short laugh. “I lost all the courage I had so carefully hoarded. I told myself that I had your heart, I'd have time for the rest... and in the morning adad told me he was going to Erebor and he ordered you to join him.” Thorin shuddered. “When you came back, three years had passed, and I had lost what little hope I had left. I realised that I couldn't marry in Ered Luin. Dís got married, but I just… When Fíli was born... Amad told me I had waited more than long enough. I finally asked you to wear my Devotion, but I couldn’t give up on Erebor. Not even for you, for me, for us… I thought for sure you'd give up on me, far sooner than now.” 

“I didn't…” Dwalin protested, but Thorin held up a hand to keep him from speaking.

“You did. You decided I didn't love you, and you gave up. You gave up on me, Dwalin, and I couldn't even blame you... I have never been so scared as I was when I ran from the Trial to find you. To see you, lying there, unconscious, as Geira explained what she had heard... I thought I hated myself for the day in the Throne Room, but it was nothing to the self-loathing I felt then. Knowing I had broken your heart so thoroughly you thought death was a relief... I cannot forgive that.” Thorin didn’t know if he meant himself or Dwalin with the last remark.

“I didn't go there looking for death, Thorin, I'm not that daft. I was hoping for peace, a chance to _think_ , but before I knew it I could feel myself slipping... and then _she_ was there, and I clung to her voice like a lifeline, begging for help.” Dwalin admitted. “It was… terrifying and wonderful at the same time, indescribable.”

“Losing you… it would be no more than I deserved for what I did,” Thorin whispered, with a feeling like Azog’s jagged blade was skewering his heart.

“Thorin, you were mad, you were not yourself!” Dwalin protested. “I forgive you.”

“I don’t mean the Throne Room,” Thorin whispered, staring down at Dwalin’s confused face. “I mean all of it. Did you think I do not know that I failed you? Did you think I did not notice all the whispers, _know_ that every time they called you my lover, I failed you by not being brave enough to say 'no, he is my husband'? All the times the lads called you uncle, or Dís called you brother, or amad called you son?” he ranted. “I _knew_ , and I carried the shame of my cowardice, my shame and regret that I did not make you wear my devotion visibly - that I did not make the world see you for what you are: the very heart of me. Did you truly believe you were not worthy of my love? It has always been clear to me, to all of our kin, that I am the one who does not deserve a heart such as yours to call my home.” Thorin wanted to cry, but he forced himself to keep speaking, the words falling easily from his lips as he tried to banish every doubt his beloved had ever harboured. “Dwalin, you have been by my side through _everything_ , you have kept me from falling apart time and again, and I have given you only pain in return, I fear. I could never love someone else as I love you, as I have _always_ loved you.” Thorin declared, almost fervently. Dwalin opened his mouth, but Thorin pressed a finger to his lips for silence. “No, don't speak. I am speaking; you may have your turn when I am done. I love you. I have said it, and I always thought you believed me, but perhaps I have not said it enough, for all that. So, I will say it again; I love you. I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone. I love you because you make me smile, even on the darkest days. I love you because you let me believe that I am doing right by those who look to me for guidance, because you make me strive to do better every day. I love you, because you are beautiful, and Mahal help me, I don't know how I ever caught your eye, but I am grateful I did. I love you, because you dance with me, even when we're not moving, because you fit in the space around me as I fit in yours. I love you for comfort, and safety, and I love you for loving those who love me. I love you for your heart, the kindness you show others, the mithril heart you hide beneath grizzled fur. I love you for the way you touch me, because you make me feel handsome. I love your sweetness, and your growls, I love that you always eat the cookies but you still leave at least one for me. I love that you helped us raise the boys, the way you used to sit up and sing for my amad when she could not sleep for missing Frerin. I love that you kiss me, even if you are angry with me, before we sleep. I love the way you hold me, make me feel like the world cannot harm me, when we both know it likes nothing better. I love that you have never wanted a crown; you only ever loved me for me. I love when you're protective of me, coming home with bruises you won't explain but I know is from fighting for my honour, even when I wish you wouldn't. I love that you always let me tend to your wounds before the healers, even when I am being ridiculous about it.” He grimaced slightly at that point, but soldiered on regardless as Dwalin watched him with wide eyes. “I love you for never shying away from my inept attempts at comfort, even if seeing you in pain makes me even worse with my words than I am most of the time. I love you because you kick my arse when I need it. I love you because you steal the blankets as an excuse to hold me. I love you for the way your beard looks in the morning when I've spent all night with my fingers curled in it. I love you for accepting that I kept my beard short, and helping me trim it. I love you for the songs you hum when you're cooking, when you don't realise you're singing. I love you.” Thorin paused, looking around the room with a frown. “All that I was,” he said, handing Dwalin a blacksmith’s hammer, “all that I will be,” placing the Raven crown on top, “all that I am.” he whispered, pulling the clasps and beads from his hair and placing them in Dwalin’s palm. Thorin cupped Dwalin’s face with shaking fingers. “I belong to you, Dwalin, as I have always belonged to you. I want no one but you, not now, not ever. I want you, and I want you to claim me for your own as we should have done a century ago, I... I have never deserved your heart, Dwalin... but I ask you to give it into my keeping in exchange for mine.” Biting his lip nervously, Thorin stared into Dwalin’s blue eyes.

Silently, Dwalin placed each clasp on the desk beside him, one by one, setting the beads in a row behind them. Trailing his palms up Thorin’s side, he wrapped them once more around the thick dark hair, noting the way the light of the dying embers played in the silver strands. Pulling him down, Dwalin pressed his forehead against Thorin’s, breathing silently.

“I accept your Craft, your future, your whole self, amrâlimê,” he stated. “I offer you my Craft, my future, my whole self, from this day until the end of Time.”

“I accept,” Thorin whispered, pressing his lips against Dwalin’s in a kiss long-overdue. “ **Ins Mahal taglibi luknu.** ” He was not surprised to hear the clatter of metal on stone when Dwalin suddenly stood, their lips still connected, and pulled him into Dwalin’s arms. With a slight moan, Thorin found himself pressed against the bedclothes, his arm roaming across the wide expanse of Dwalin’s back, tracing old scars and the lines of Dwalin’s tattoos by memory. Wrapping his legs around Dwalin’s waist, Thorin moaned again, thrusting his hips upwards. Thorin hummed, sucking on his tongue. “Please, Dwalin,” he moaned, when Dwalin’s teeth found that spot where his beard ended and made his pulse jump beneath his skin and his back bow with pleasure. Dwalin smirked against Thorin’s skin. The King’s lone hand continued to roam, his thumb flicking against the steel bar he had played with earlier as Dwalin’s hands made their way to cupping Thorin’s groin, making him hiss at the friction. When the large palm snaked its way beneath his laces, Thorin bucked up once more, pulling Dwalin’s mouth back to his own, slanting his lips across Dwalin’s and sucking his tongue lightly. Wriggling out of his own clothes and pushing at Dwalin’s breeches soon had them both naked. Thorin smiled.

“I want you,” Dwalin moaned, a broken sound echoing in the night. Thorin kissed him silent, wrapping his hand around both of them and pumping slowly.

“Are you going to defile the king, Dwalin?” he smirked, twisting his grip slightly. Dwalin groaned.

“You should shut up while you're ahead, Thorin. I haven’t married you yet,” he teased, but the softness he couldn’t hide in his eyes made Thorin entirely confident that he would. Dwalin's mouth on his prevented Thorin from uttering any more inanities, as his fingers rubbed lightly across Thorin’s hip, which was far more pleasurable anyway. Thorin hummed, sucking on his tongue. Silently, he directed Dwalin’s free hand towards the bedside table, to fetch a small vial of slickness. Tugging on Dwalin's wiry beard for emphasis, Thorin brought the big warrior up for a kiss. He smirked, spreading his legs and bucking his hips up to rub against Dwalin's with a hiss of pleasure. Dwalin growled, hitching Thorin’s leg up around his hip.

“Please, Amrâlimê,” Thorin whispered, nipping at Dwalin’s ear. He moaned when Dwalin’s teeth found his neck once more, his slick fingers teasing slowly across Thorin’s skin.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to write actual smut for this, but then my parents used 'It's our holiday, want to join us for a visit to your grandfather's?' which was super effective and lovely, but I cannot write smut in the presence of family, even if they are focused on the UEFA Cup game and I'm just typing away in the living room.
> 
> (Bonus info: in the Word doc, this chapter was entitled Thorin angsting and cuddling.)


	53. Life and Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thinking, talking, and smirking.

“Was Dwalin sick like Uncle?” Kíli asked that morning, staring into thin air. His words shocked his audience, not because of what he said, but rather because of the implications. Fíli did not know what to say, but his silent thinking was interrupted by Ori.

“I think it was different, but the same, maybe,” the scribe said slowly, thoughtfully.

“I’m not sure if you know this, Princelings,” Nori interjected in a low voice that made Fíli suddenly aware that they were very much in public in the crowded breakfast hall, “but while you may have considered Dwalin an Uncle since always, our people in general have not.” Fíli nodded. He had known that.

“But Dwalin knows it,” Kíli claimed stubbornly.

“Some days, yes,” Nori speculated, keeping his volume down. “And some days, I think the ones who call him little more than a favoured bedwarmer outweigh the voices of those who call him Thorin’s One.”

“But why,” Kíli demanded, but Fíli found himself answering, having asked the very same thing of his Amad years ago. He had always been quieter than Kíli and he’s remained unnoticed by a couple of gossipy dwarrow leaving a meeting with his Uncle.

“Because Uncle never married him.” Nori was nodding, while Kíli looked confused.

“It’s one thing to _say_ you want to marry someone,” Nori said, and his voice was far too kind for Fíli to stomach.

“It’s why we never called it Thorinuldûm at home, Kíli,” he explained tiredly, “because of the wedding wows.”

“In my Halls you will find a house… in my heart you will find a home,” Ori piped up, and suddenly Kíli looked sad, as though he’d never thought about it before.

“But our parents married, Amad didn’t need to be in Erebor, Ered Luin was enough for them.”

“Your Adad’s Halls, Kíli,” this time Dori was interjecting, “even though I don’t think Víli actually built the house you lived in, he did add several rooms to it for your family to call its home. Thorin has… never considered Ered Luin his Halls, just as he never gave up the dream of returning to Erebor, to his _home._ ”

“Is that why you’re not married, Mister Dori?” Kíli asked cheekily, breaking the sombre mood at their table. “You were also born in Erebor!” Nori laughed, and even Dori looked bemused, but Fíli detected genuine curiosity behind Kíli’s cheek.

“I’m younger than your Amad, Kíli, I barely remember this stone,” Dori sighed, but still smiled fondly at the darkhaired prince. Kíli ducked his head shyly. “No, my Halls were Ered Luin for many years, and now I will build myself a new home here, among the green stone of my fathers. Well,” Dori continued primly, “once we’ve cleaned the place up a bit.”

With a wink that had far too much Nori in it for Fíli’s peace of mind, Dori left the hall, corralling Bofur on the way out. Even though the miner was still hobbling about – much like Kíli, in fact, waiting for his foot to heal fully – he had still returned to work, tossing smaller rocks into the waiting carts for someone else to haul off. The broken stone would be gathered and sorted, what remained useful kept for new construction, and the rest would probably be ground up for mortar. Bofur had grumbled about not being allowed to continue to inspect the mines, but Lord Dáin had been adamant about the reassignment and Uncle Thorin had backed his cousin in the command.

“I should get going too,” Ori decided. “We were slacking off most of yesterday, and Master Baggins found some interesting poetry about the forest of Mirkwood back when Dwarrow first settled in Erebor. It’s in Elvish, and we thought a reading might be a nice farewell for when the Elvenking leaves.” Smiling softly at Kíli and giving Fíli a nod, the small Scribe was gone before either brother could reply, though Kíli sent a longing look after Ori’s vanishing back.

“He’s right,” Fíli mused, tactfully ignoring the way his brother was once more staring into thin air – this time his expression was rather soppy, “there’s bound to be a proper feast, to mark the creation of the new treaties with Mirkwood and Dale.”

“Hmm?” Kíli was not paying attention to his brother’s words. His sudden look of alarm was amusing Fíli, however, when a cool voice sounded over his shoulder and made a similar look flash across his own features.

“Speaking of our treaties, Prince Fíli, any news on when we may see the return of your King?” Thranduil said calmly. Fíli whirled in his seat. As always – somehow, the Elvenking even managed it hours after everyone else had begun to look for the most comfortable way to wear their outfits – Thranduil’s robes were immaculate. Fíli quickly ran over his own clothes in his mind, wincing at the thought of the jam he had dripped onto his thigh with the morning’s breakfast.

“I shouldn’t expect Uncle to be much use until Dwalin recovers,” he said carefully. It had always been so, whenever Dwalin was hurt breaking up a brawl or harmed in some other way. Thorin would be fretting himself into a state that Fíli had never seen at other times. Of course, he did not remember his own birth, nor much of Kíli’s aside from the moment when the adults placed the new pebble in his arms and told him it was his baby brother.

“I have it on good authority that he should have awoken at some point during the night,” Thranduil claimed, and – even if he was taking the word of an Elf – it made Fíli feel better.

“What about Auntie?” Kíli asked, making Fíli feel bad again; with everything that had happened, he had barely had time to consider the fate of their elven aunt. The Elvenking, however, smiled in a way Fíli would tentatively consider soft – it was there and gone in a flash, but he was sure he’d seen it anyway.

“Hiril Rhonith should make a full recovery,” he told Kíli, who drew a relieved sigh, “she is simply very tired, but she woke up yesterday and today for a few moments, and spoke to us,” Thranduil continued kindly. “I’m sure she would appreciate you visiting with her, even if she is still asleep.” When Kíli nodded, Fíli knew what their first port of call would be. Kíli had told him about speaking to Geira in the stone, and Fíli understood the connection his little brother had made with her, even if Fíli himself had spent little time with the Elf aside from a few talks during the walk through Mirkwood.

“I’ll check on Uncle,” Fíli promised, “Balin still has the preliminaries, but I don’t think it’d be wise to expect him to be let into Uncle’s rooms to deliver them.”

“No,” Thranduil seemed amused, somehow, a strange glitter in his eyes. “If he emerges, I shall be found in the Ruby Ward, overseeing the healing of my people.” While not many Elves remained, the few who had been left in Erebor were the ones deemed in too critical a condition to move to Mirkwood. A few were still hovering on the brink of life. Fíli had known that much of Thranduil’s time was spent there, even if the Elvenking was not a healer. With a slight nod, the tall Elf vanished as silently as he had appeared. Tossing back the last dregs of his morning tea – brewed to Óin’s specifications to aid in healing – Fíli got to his feet with a grimace and picked up his walking stick. Though he was improving, the lack of depth perception still threw him at times, and he often used the stick to avoid running into things. Somehow, he mused, it was rather lucky that all his injuries were on the same side. On the other side of the table, Kíli wrestled his crutches under his control.

“We should go fetch our Uncles some breakfast,” the younger Dwarf decided. Fíli wisely didn’t point out that carrying more than one item was currently rather beyond the two of them, and felt quietly relieved when Nori returned to their side. The Thief wasn’t even limping, and Fíli had seen the wrongness that had been his knee after the Battle. Fíli scowled jealously.

“I’ll give you a hand,” Nori simply said, and that was that. The three dwarrow set off for the other end of the hall where they found dwarrow bustling about under the skilled command of the ‘Baker-Elf’ as Kíli had dubbed her, Maeassel.

“Still hungry, wee ones?” she asked, and her motherly manner was such that none of them objected to being referred to as little more than children. It was curious, Fíli thought, how something that was basically an insult could be used to convey concern and care as well.

“Ahh, fair lady of the berry tarts,” Nori proclaimed dramatically, “have mercy upon a poor starving Dwarf who has simply come to bask in your radiant beauty!” Maeassel simply laughed, swatting her spoon in Nori’s direction. The Thief bowed. Kíli stared in amazement.

“You are a charmer you are, _Rusc_.” Maeassel gave the three of them a grin.

“We wanted to bring some breakfast to Uncle Thorin,” Fíli said, which instantly sparked a flurry of rapid Elvish words from Lady Maeassel and made one of her assistants assemble a tray for two in less time than Fíli would have thought possible. With a wink, the lady handed him and Kíli each a tart, while Nori grabbed the tray and his own tart was stuffed in a kerchief for later.

“Off you go then,” she said, before turning back to doing something or other that would forever be a mystery to people like Fíli but would probably produce delicious food at the end of it. They went.

 

* * *

 

 

The knock on the door woke Dwalin, who found himself almost smothered by Thorin’s wild hair. The King of Erebor was sprawled across his chest, with Dwalin’s arms wrapped tight around him. He felt slightly sheepish with the return of the memory of the night before, but at the same time, his most overwhelming feeling was a sense of relief. Things were not completely fixed between them – and Dwalin was not looking forward to what Dís would have to say when she heard of the whole mess – but they were on the mend. His stomach growled, loud enough to wake Thorin, who stumbled into wakefulness with the grumpy air of someone who has slept well for the first time in months and has no intention of leaving their warm nest. The sight made Dwalin chuckle.

“No go,” Thorin grumbled, keeping his eyes firmly shut and seeming to be of the steadfast belief that if he ignored whoever was at the door, they’d go away for good and stop bothering him. Dwalin’s empty belly growled again.

“I’ll go see who it is.” Dwalin sighed, moving Thorin’s body off him despite his half-hearted resistance. Thorin’s light snores filled the room once more before Dwalin had even managed to get his breeches back on. The knock sounded again, slightly more impatient. Crossing the study, Dwalin remembered that the door was locked. Nearly laughing at his own foolishness, he realised that the key had never actually left the door, and was still in the lock, something he hadn’t noticed in the upheaval of their argument during the night.  Turning the key, the door opened easily, and suddenly Dwalin found himself under attack, a young Dwarf squeezing the breath from his body on either side.

“Uncle!” Kíli cried, his voice shaky. Fíli didn’t speak, but Dwalin felt wetness leak from his eyes.

“Morning, ma wee rascals,” he rumbled, wrapping a strong arm around each of them. In front of him, Nori was grinning like a damn fool, a sentiment Dwalin eloquently expressed in a glare that made the thief shrug and hold up a tray of sumptuous-looking breakfast, which would suffuse as an adequate apology in Dwalin’s mind. Dwalin’s stomach loudly agreed with the imminent arrival of food.

“You’re not hurt?” Fíli asked, his sea-green eyes staring imploringly up at Dwalin.

“Nay, Fíli, **sullu iglukhul ya bark ra targ. **[281]**** ” Dwalin replied, squeezing them both gently. Behind him, Thorin yawned.

“Is that breakfast?” Thorin asked, looking sleep-rumpled and less than half awake. Dwalin had to smile. Releasing the princes, he accepted the tray from Nori, who flashed him the sign for _later_ and sauntered off, biting into a tart he pulled from his pocket as he walked. Dwalin shook his head in fond exasperation. Turning around, Dwalin set the tray down and went to rescue Thorin from Kíli’s exuberance; the two never meshed well in early mornings. Thorin shot him a grateful look, pulling the bowl of hot porridge closer and stirring in the small pat of butter. Kíli took over the job of pouring tea – the Mirkwood Elves brewed it correctly, of course, and Dwalin reminded himself to ask for the trick of it – while Fíli pushed Dwalin’s own bowl of porridge over.

“ **Shelekika hakhd ra targ. **[282]**** ” Dwalin moaned when the first bite hit his stomach. They were the last words spoken in quite a while. Under the careful scrutiny of their nephews, the King and his Consort ate their breakfast slowly. Under the table, Thorin’s bare feet were pressed against Dwalin’s, the point of physical contact a reassurance.

 

* * *

 

 

“Is Aunt Geira awake too?” Thorin asked, later, as Dwalin’s nimble fingers sectioned off a lock of his long hair for braiding. The clasps he had removed to make a point were still sat on the table where Dwalin had put them, and the warrior was now reweaving the braids Thorin usually wore. The King of Erebor knew that he’d have to learn one-handed braiding at some point; even if Dwalin wore his beard unadorned like his Amad’s clan, they would still exchange marriage braids during the ceremony. He mentally reminded himself to ask Dori to help plan it. Dís would be livid if she didn’t get to be a witness, but Thorin thought she would understand eventually; they had waited far too long already, he knew. Fíli shook his head.

“We were going to visit her next,” Kíli said, busy redoing one of Fíli’s braids. He might dislike having his own hair braided – growing up he had lamented more than once that he had no convenient Stiffbeard ancestry like Dwalin – but Kíli was quite good at it nonetheless. “Thranduil said she woke yesterday, though she’s too weak to remain awake for long.”

“Dori and Nori are taking care of her,” Fíli said, forestalling his Uncle’s questions. “Legolas sits with her most of the time. Bifur is teaching him to carve animals.” That had puzzled the Heir under the Mountain, but it had been a minor amusement at the time, watching the elf try to turn his practical ability into something artistic for which he had little skill.

“Ori says he’s trying to make a courting gift,” Kíli revealed. Thorin burst out laughing. Dwalin’s chuckles joined him, but Kíli shook his head at them. “I’m serious!”

“Really?” Suddenly serious, Thorin still couldn’t help but smile at the thought. “Good for him.” Dwalin nodded, tugging at Thorin’s half-finished braid to make him turn back around.

“Think they’ll do the full courtship?” Fíli wondered, even if the news of the Elf’s attempts at making a gift were probably the worst kept secret of the Mountain.

“It seems we’ve missed more than a few pieces of news,” Thorin replied, but shook his head. “To think that I should live to see the son of _Thranduil_ court a Dwarf.” Dwalin – who remembered the disdain Thorin had previously felt for the Elvenking before their renewed acquaintance – joined his chortling.

 

* * *

 

In the end, Kíli had to go alone. With Dwalin awake once more, Thorin felt compelled to get back to work, and he was quick to get Fíli to promise his aid in the negotiations with Dáin about restocking their rapidly dwindling supplies. When Kíli entered the room, he was shocked by the rapid improvement that had occurred in only two days’ time. Geira was merely gaunt, rather than skeletal, and her skin had regained a healthier flush of colour. The room was empty, for once, and Kíli made his way to the bed almost hesitantly, sinking down onto Legolas’ abandoned chair. Reaching out slowly, he drew a finger down her cheek, the skin no longer feeling paper-thin.

“Hello auntie,” he whispered. He didn’t say anything else, feeling foolish speaking to someone who obviously couldn’t hear him. Looking at the small bedside table, he couldn’t help but smile at the trio of carved wooden figurines. He thought it was meant to be a crude dwarven warrior – mostly because it was armed with a rudimentary axe – a flower probably indigenous to Mirkwood, and a leaf decorated with an odd spiral pattern. The leaf was almost pretty, even though it appeared to have been made by a child. With a wry smile, Kíli admitted to himself that he probably couldn’t have done it better, his own Craft being leatherworking.

“Bulsalus,” Geira sighed, startling him out of his contemplations of Legolas’ artistic ability.

“Auntie? You awake?” Kíli blurted, staring intently at the small smile on Geira’s face, but she did not react in any visible way. Kíli slumped a little in his chair, patting her hand gently. “You were right, Auntie,” he said, getting to his feet, “sleep well.” Looking back one last time, Kíli gathered up his crutches once more and left the room.

 

* * *

 

Wandering through the Library and picking out scrolls and books at random was quickly becoming Bilbo's favourite thing to do in Erebor. Though the selection of texts he could actually read was somewhat slim compared to the number of tomes he pulled that were in incomprehensible Khuzdul, he still found more than enough to keep himself occupied in the few hours a day Ori had allotted for the both of them to enjoy the works housed in the airy space rather than simply catalogue them. Bilbo had even found a few dwarfling books in Khuzdul which he had managed to make sense of, feeling quite proud when he finished 'The Story of Ragni and the Ruby'.

Currently, he was enjoying a scroll of Elven poetry, however, writing a draft of a translation in the Common Tongue for Ori, who had never learned Sindarin. Most of the Sindarin texts he had found so far were treatises on construction, metalwork, or engineering, but this scroll was an ode to a friendship between an unnamed Elf and a Dwarf called Bragi, who was also the author. Bragi had been among those dwarrow who mined the northern mountains in Thranduil's realm, and his friend was a hunter from the nearest Elven settlement who had saved him when he got lost in the forest trying to find the well-hidden village and acquire a healer for his brother. The story had also been written in Khuzdul further down the scroll and Bilbo was using the Sindarin he recognised to make credible guesses at the meanings of words he did not know in Khuzdul. The story would be added to his pile of 'works concerning friendship between Dwarrow and Elves' from which they would pick a couple to perform as part of the celebrations once the treaty negotiations were done. Ori had told him it was usually a job given to apprentice Singers, who would perform dramatic readings to gain experience in appearing before an audience. Young Flóki, obviously, was already quite used to doing his duties under the scrutiny of many eyes and Dori had somehow made it seem like they had volunteered to do it, a feat Bilbo still wasn't certain how Dori had accomplished. He didn't really mind, however, actually looking forward to telling stories. He had already gathered a small crowd of listeners during dinner yesterday when he was explaining the customs and traditions of the Litheday Feasts to Bofur. He had even been roped into repeating - with suitable embellishments - the story of Bullroarer Took, which Bofur had apparently disliked, excusing himself shortly after. Bilbo had wondered at the time, feeling guilty for upsetting his friend, but he had been prevented from following by the bustling crowd and the demand for another story. He had told the gathered Dwarrow about the Three Trolls, which had been such a crowd-pleaser that Bilbo had forgotten his earlier upset.

 

* * *

 

Given that he could barely bring himself to look at Balin, feeling that the Uzugbad was at least partly to blame for Dwalin, negotiations with Dáin were incredibly awkward and stilted. He was aware that his cousin – either of them, really – was wary of him, waiting for some intangible proof that his madness had passed and at times Thorin wanted to scream at them. Thorin felt frustrated. He did not _want_ to be arguing the price of barley-grain and salted pork, even though he knew it was necessary to ensure his people’s survival. He understood Dáin’s position; his own people could not be left to starve or have the prices raised so high that the less fortunate ‘Hillies would go hungry. It wasn’t like he couldn’t _afford_ to pay through the nose for foodstuffs after all, and Dáin was owed some recompense for his aid. They had yet to touch the issue of wergild, and Thorin added it to his list of things to consider. He had made a more than generous offer in support of amputees, and Óin was already writing up lists of those who qualified to ask for aid from the Crown, which meant that he could be no less generous to those who were now widowed or orphaned.

“So we are agreed on quantity,” Dáin interrupted Thorin’s musings, “let’s settle on a price then.”

 

When the meeting was finally finished, if not to Thorin’s pleasure then at least to a degree of mutual satisfaction, Dáin caught his arm on the way out.

“How’s me cousin, Thorin?” Bifur and Nori had silently agreed not to share the real reason behind Dwalin’s collapse, for which Thorin felt grateful. Balin knew, obviously, because Thorin had found release for his roiling fear and guilt in screaming at the older Dwarf, something he thought he should feel ashamed for, and might have, if the shame had not been immediately smothered by his indignant feeling of righteous fury every time he thought about how close Balin’s scheme had come to costing him everything.

“Dwalin is well, Cousin,” Thorin replied, slightly hoarse. “And there will be a wedding soon.” The smile on Dáin’s face as that news went a long way towards Thorin forgiving him for the role he had played in the whole affair. Dáin spent the rest of the walk to dinner listing all the ‘Hillies who’d be expecting to be invited to the wedding of the grandson of Geira Strongarm. By the time he reached his seat, Thorin’s forgiveness seemed to him to have been a momentary lapse of sanity, but the small smile he saw on Dwalin’s face as he caught the tail-end of their conversation made it worth it. The kiss he received when he slid into the seat beside Dwalin made him wonder if he ought to encourage Dáin’s propensity for rambling at him, but he nixed that idea with a slight shudder. There were better ways to earn kisses.

“Long day?” Dwalin asked knowingly. Thorin simply sighed. His shoulders felt like one giant knot of tension.

“A very long day,” he replied, thanking the soldier who set down their bowls of stew with a nod. “And tomorrow I get to enjoy the company of Thranduil.”

“I thought you were becoming friendly with the Elf,” Dwalin mused.

“He is surprisingly tolerable in private,” Thorin admitted.

“High praise indeed, King Thorin,” Thranduil smirked, passing behind them. “I am pleased to see you so well recovered, Lord Dwalin,” he continued smoothly, while Thorin spluttered at being caught and Dwalin tried to hide his sniggers.

“I feel better, thank you for your concern,” Dwalin managed a polite half-bow from his seat which Thranduil returned with a nod. “Any word on the expected recovery of Aunt Geira? Kíli told me she looked much better than when she was brought up from the Stones, but I fear that I have no memory for comparison.” Beneath the table, Thorin’s hand found Dwalin’s, squeezing gently.

“When she can remain awake long enough to take proper sustenance, I expect her recovery to be quite swift; far swifter than a mortal, at any rate. Until then, however, your guess is as good as mine.” Thranduil replied, his even voice betraying no hint of the emotions that swirled behind his penetrating gaze. Dwalin nodded.

 

 

* * *

 

“Still no change?” Dwalin rumbled as he opened the door. The Elf shook his head, and Dwalin sighed. He felt guilty; if not for him, she would not now be lying asleep, trying to recover from the violent way she had been released from the Stone. “She’ll pull through, don’t you worry, lad,” he said, radiating gruff comfort. Legolas would never stop finding it amusing that the burly warrior – not even a tenth of his own age under his belt – called him ‘lad’ with such regularity. “Durins are stubborn as mountains, you know. All Dwarrow are stubborn, of course,” Dwalin continued philosophically, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Durins are more stubborn than any other family I have known, however.” Legolas was hardly surprised by that information. “I should know; my whole family are Durins, and my One is the Durin King.” The bald Dwarf chuckled, but Legolas could only smile weakly.

“You have said that before, Dwalin hîr.” The Elvish word made Dwalin frown, but it was a thoughtful rather than angry expression, as if he was sounding the word out in his head and trying to parse the meaning.

“Said what, lad?” he questioned, picking up one of Legolas’s most recent attempts at carving what Dwalin thought might have been intended to be an elk. It was…not succeeding. Dwalin kindly didn’t point that out, fully aware that the elf already knew and willing to give him _some_ credit for trying.

“You called Thorin your One. I don’t understand the term? Your one what? King? Lover? Spouse?” Legolas asked carefully. He tried to pretend that the question was unimportant when Dwalin seemed to hesitate in answering.

“My One… my Heart-Song,” Dwalin replied slowly, placing the possibly-an-elk-possibly-an-antlered-cow back among the other carvings. He frowned, trying to decide how to explain – and _if_ he should explain. Knowing what the Elf was really asking, he made up his mind to answer as honestly as possible, even if the explanation might not make much sense to someone not born of the Maker’s hand. “Your One is the one whose soul was created as a match to yours. When you find them, your heart sings.” Dwalin felt quite awkward spouting such sentimentality, but explaining something he simply _felt_ was almost impossible. “Your One is the most important person in your life, though not every Dwarf marries their One. Some are simply friends, without the physical attraction, though that is quite rare. Some Dwarrow prefer to become Craft-Wed, never marrying or falling in love. Not every Dwarf has a One, of course, but Mahal knew that his Children needed more than a push on the road to falling in love. Dwarrow are slow to change, and we often need the nudge from our Creator’s touch to lead us in the right direction. Otherwise, many of our kind would not even realise that what they were feeling was love, so slowly can it grow. It can also be explosive, like an earthquake; those Ones are usually forged during battle or other times where great danger lurks.”

“Were you explosive?” Legolas was intrigued, though he did not yet feel brave enough to ask his most burning question. Dwalin chuckled. The elf tended to forget himself in his curiosity, revealing far more than he thought; Dwalin was at least as shrewd and observant as Balin, even if he didn’t use his mind the same way.

“You’re thinking of his temper, lad,” Dwalin chuckled, “but, no, Thorin and I were simply young.” Thinking back put a soft look on his face, Legolas smiled to see it. “We arrived at love almost by accident. Our love grew slowly; from outright hatred through deep friendship. When we were young, in Erebor’s glory, it was not love, not yet. There was lust, and we did a great deal of physical experimentation, but love came later, after years of toil. We were lovers for many years before we became _loves_ ,” the burly dwarf chuckled at Legolas’ expression. The elf still thought the practise of several lovers peculiar. “When we finally did declare ourselves, we still could not marry openly.” Surprisingly, talking about it made Dwalin feel better about the events of the past months. He continued, almost involuntarily, words spilling from his lips without his conscious demand, “Thorin needed an heir, and though Dís was willing to provide one, Thorin had to be seen as able to do so himself until she was able. Dís always wanted to be a mother. That Víli – that’s the lads’ father – was taken from her so early was a great sorrow to all of us. Fíli barely remembers his father, and Kíli never met him.” Dwalin sighed, shaking his tattooed head sadly. Though the wound was old, he still felt the pain of knowing what Fíli and Kíli were missing. “Thorin and I… we became surrogate fathers for the boys, helping Dís keep food on the table and raising them alongside her and Frís. They are our sons in all the ways that matter.”

“I never knew my mother either,” Legolas found himself admitting. Dwalin made a gentle sound that Legolas took to meaning both sympathy and commiseration.

“Aye, Geira told us she sailed West at the beginning of this age,” he said, patting the elf’s shoulder. “I’ll be back in the morning. You should get some sleep.” Turning away from the still figure in the bed, Dwalin smiled slightly. If nothing else, everything that had happened seemed to have galvanised Legolas’ resolve, which made Dwalin hopeful that they would find their happiness soon.

 

* * *

 

“Stay with me?” Thorin asked, when Dwalin opened the door to his study, having promised to report on the state of his aunt. Thorin knew he ought to go visit himself, but he felt reluctant to do so, to see her like that, and part of him felt like a dwarfling who was trying to avoid a scolding.

“Always,” Dwalin replied, feeling like he was answering more than Thorin had asked. The corresponding smile on Thorin’s face warmed his heart. Waving a hand towards the other chair, Thorin turned back to the papers that littered his desk, wondering how a Kingdom less than two weeks reclaimed could have accumulated quite so much paperwork already. Dwalin pressed a kiss against his dark hair, before setting himself to the task of working out the tension in Thorin’s shoulders.

The paperwork did not get sorted that night.

 

 

 

[281] All is well with axe and beard.

[282] It wets tooth and beard. (said about food which is very appetizing)


	54. Visits and Verification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thalion appears, along with a few other ghosts of the past and Littlenori gets her wish about the Ur+Bilbo connection being revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter almost wrote itself -a surprise considering I'm on holiday with a 2yo bundle of energy to mind as well as a hyper 6yo and a 10yo who speaks only Chinese and thinks yelling is the only possible volume in which to exist. anyways, you get two chapters in two days and the next one is almost finished too o.O apparently, stress is almost as good as insomnia?

Legolas could only sit and watch, waiting for her to wake up properly, able to remain awake for more than a few murmured sentences, as his fingers attempted to turn small blocks of wood into recognizable animals and plants. Sometimes she’d speak, still asleep, but he did not understand muttered Khuzdul words and she only rarely spoke anything he understood. Every now and again, one of the Dwarrow came by. Mostly, it was Dori, who was rapidly becoming Legolas’ favourite dwarf because she usually brought food. He liked Nori’s visits for the amusing stories the Fox – Maeassel had named him that – told of the goings-on in the rest of the Mountain. His favourite visitor, however, was Dwalin, who came by at least twice a day.

Legolas thought they might be approaching friends by now, even though their conversations were often stilted. Dwalin had taken to whispering Khuzdul words in her ear before leaving for the day, but he never translated the syllables he growled, and Legolas never asked.

 

* * *

 

“You mind that story Athalrún tells?” Bofur asked his brother when Bombur appeared for breakfast. He’d been mulling it over for a bit now, but he couldn’t remember the names she used. “The one with the Hobbit King and the Goblin War,” he clarified, when Bombur looked puzzled; his wife told many stories. Bombur frowned, thinking.

“The one about her cousin of some kind who used a club to behead a Goblin?” he asked. Bofur nodded. “I always thought it might have been a dwarf-blooded Hobbit, honestly. Goblins are quite tough-skinned creatures, after all; their bones only slightly less difficult to break than our own,” Bombur said, pouring himself a goblet of water. “After meeting Bilbo Baggins, I’ve come to doubt that a Hobbit could actually swing anything with enough force to behead something. Perhaps if Thorin lent him Orcrist – that sword is more than sharp – but not a club. Smash its skull in, aye,” he continued, fair-mindedly, “but taking the head clean off seems more than a little exaggerated to me.”

“Exaggerated, perhaps,” Bofur agreed, “but it was the same story I heard Bilbo tell last night, about the Hobbit who was so large he could sit a real horse-”

“Clearly not a full-blooded Hobbit,” Bombur interjected, before another spoonful of porridge entered his mouth. “Though maybe not a Dwarf-blooded Hobbit, I’d wager half-Man, half-Hobbit for that size.”

“Yes, sure,” Bofur replied, irritated by the interruption. “My point was that Bilbo told the same story as Athalrún… only he called the Hobbit his grand-uncle.”

“Think it was the same Hobbit?” Bombur asked, suddenly interested. A piece of bat-sausage hung forgotten from his eating knife, dripping sauce onto his trousers.

“I can’t mind the name in Athalrún’s tale,” Bofur groused, vexed that his otherwise impeccable memory for stories and songs had failed him so spectacularly as to forget a name in a story he had heard often enough he ought to remember it perfectly. Bombur looked amused.

“I always thought it was a peculiar name for a Hobbit,” he replied, calmly munching on his sausage, “Bull-roarer. Bull-roarer Took. I often wondered what he took, but according to Master Baggins, it’s a name of a clan of Hobbits, not part of his deed-name.”

“Yes, that’s what Bilbo said!” Bofur crowed. Bombur looked slightly confused, before he remembered why Bofur had asked about the story of cousin Bandobras in the first place.

“So, Bilbo Baggins is a cousin of my wife’s?” Bombur said, stroking his massive beard thoughtfully. “Well, that’ll be a story to tell the weins when they get here.” Smiling at the thought of surprising his beloved Athalrún like that, Bombur didn’t notice that Bofur had abandoned him to his breakfast, hobbling his way over to Dori with a determined look on his face.

 

* * *

 

 

“Thalion?” Rhonith cried out, distressed. Legolas tensed, but she did not repeat his brother’s name. He stroked her cheek gently, smoothing the frown on her face. A slow smile spread across her face, though her eyes did not open, and Legolas realized she was simply dreaming again. “ _Ai_ , _melethronneg_ …” she sighed. The door opened, admitting Dwalin once more, but Legolas hardly noticed. He did not know how he managed to speak when his heart was breaking.

“Thalion is dead, Rhonith, he died almost three thousand years ago!” he looked up then, finding the bald dwarf staring at him. Legolas winced, but he flinched away when Dwalin opened his mouth to speak. “Master Dwalin,” Legolas said, bowing stiffly, “I need to speak to my Ada. I wish you good day.” Feeling curiously detached, Legolas got up, nodded once more at Dwalin and left the room. The Dwarf stared after him, a puzzled frown on his face.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Geira opened her eyes, it was to the sight of Dwalin’s grizzled face, the dwarf idly combing his beard as he looked at a small collection of toys carved by some child and left on her bedside table.

“Dwalin…?” she frowned at the otherwise empty room; she could have sworn she heard Legolas’s voice as she swam towards consciousness.

“Ah, yer awake, lass!” the warrior boomed,

“You are well, ranakâl?” she croaked, hoarsely, looking at him.

“Aye…” Emotion made Dwalin’s eyes shiny, as he squeezed her shoulder. Fetching a cup, he poured a goblet of water. Geira gulped down the delicious water, wetting her parched throat. “Thank you,” he whispered. Geira just nodded. Neither spoke for a while. Dwalin busied himself with the bowl of broth he had brought.

“What are those?” Geira yawned, tilting her head towards the small table. Dwalin didn’t blush, exactly, but she could tell something was up by the way he fidgeted with the piece that resembled a leaf.

“Ahh, Bifur has been making your Prince,” Dwalin’s head was bowed, his eyes fixed on the piece he had picked up. Geira thought it might be a combination cow/deer, but her musings were lost when her mind picked up on the name he had used. Dwalin continued, never noting the way she stiffened in shock, her sluggish mind racing to make sense of the evidence before it, “how to carve figurines and such. He _is_ improving. They’re a Gift for you.” Though Dwalin spoke in Common – wary of eavesdroppers outside the still ajar door – they both realised the important capitalization of that word.

“I think… I was dreaming? Thalion was there, and Amad…” she trailed off tiredly, trying not to raise old hopes that had long-since burned, her eyes falling shut as she changed the subject. Geira blinked them open with some effort. Dwalin nodded, equally anxious to drop the topic of Courting Gifts made by a certain Elf Princeling.

“Aye, I heard you say that name. I forgot to ask Legolas.” Picking up the bowl he had brought once more, Dwalin fed her a few spoonfuls of the broth. “Say, what does mel-eth-ronn-eg mean?” the warrior sounded out each syllable carefully, mangling the pronunciation slightly.

“Oh? Kíli trying to impress Ori with Sindarin endearments?” she asked, smiling. Dwalin chuckled lightly. “It means my lover. Why?”

“Ah, it was just something you said when you were dreaming.” When she nodded, looking more alert by the minute, he dared another question with the next spoonful. “Who was Thalion?”

“Thranduil’s oldest son. It is odd that I should have dreamed of him,” she mused, giving up trying to lift her hands to hold the spoon herself. Dwalin made a slight sound of interest, mostly to keep her talking and prevent her from sliding back into sleep. “He has been dead for a very long time. He was my friend for many years,” she smiled sadly. “I cared for him greatly.”

“A good Elf?” Dwalin asked.

“A good Prince. He was brave, and sometimes arrogant, but also kind, and generous, and skilled, and, in many ways, he was spoilt. In time, he might have become a fine King, too, but his life ended like so many other Woodland Elves – on the field of battle, during the war of the Last Alliance.” Sighing, she obediently ate another spoonful of broth. “He was beloved by his people, his family, by none more than his mother, but he… he was not fated for love himself.” Her eyes seemed to stare into the distant past, seeing again the wild glee of her friend as he ran through the green woods of their home, hardly noticing the spoonful of broth Dwalin made her swallow. “His name was Hwinion, once; Thalion was an _epesse_ he earned. Its closest meaning is ‘Hero’… and he was that,” another flash of sadness crossed her face, but Dwalin did not interrupt. “Thalion was perhaps the least fortunate of all Thranduil’s children,” she mused. “It is rare for Elves to favour those of their own sex for love. Many will… _dally_ , once or twice, in the company of their spouse, with other married Elves, usually once they have children grown. Thalion fell in love with an ellon, however, and there would have been no problem with that except for one thing; the ellon, Arasson, was already married to Cugweth. I do not think Thalion ever revealed his heart, for Arasson and Cugweth were very much in love and happy together.”

“I take it that did not end well,” Dwalin mumbled, feeding her another spoonful. Geira shook her head sadly.

“One day, young Thalion was hunting in the woods. He came across Arasson with Cugweth, resting in a small glade. Later, he told me that he stopped to enjoy the way the sun made fire of Arasson’s hair, but at the time, he simply claimed to have come across them randomly. Suddenly, from the undergrowth a giant wolf appeared; the kind that are now called warg. The beast killed Arasson with a single bite of its massive teeth, tearing out his throat before any of them could even scream. Thalion jumped into the fray, killing the beast after a long battle. He carried both Cugweth and Arasson back, where the story was told and retold. Cugweth went before the King, asking that he allow her the honour of giving his grandson an _epesse_ , for he had saved her life – and that of her unborn child. She had only just confirmed that she was bearing when the attack happened, and, as is custom, Oropher granted Cugweth her desire. Hwinion became Thalion, and today only a few even remember that he had a different name once. As you know, it is a custom of ours that saving a child makes you part of their life – their family. When Cugweth’s time neared, the midwife realised that she was bearing twins, a rarity among our kin, though not so rare as it is among Dwarrow. As the twins grew, Thalion became their almost-uncle or older brother, helping Cugweth raise the children of his dead love.”

“An admirable pursuit,” Dwalin rumbled, drawing similarities to himself and Thorin – even though they _were_ actually the lads’ uncles. Geira nodded, swallowing the last of the broth.

“Of course, no one realised – aside from a few whom Thalion himself told – why he loved the twins so dearly, but it hardly mattered. The twins grew up well-cared for, and became skilled trackers and hunters like their father – and like Thalion himself, who taught them swordplay. When the King’s Call sounded, the twins joined the army, marching off to war with their beloved ‘Uncle’. I did not see it happen, but I heard later that Thalion stood above the body of his fallen child until his wounds were too numerous to count. He died in Nínimeth’s arms, but the elleth he was protecting lived. I have always thought that is where their deep loyalty to the Royal Family came from.”

“Who?” Dwalin felt like he was missing something obvious.

“You met them in Mirkwood… Arastor and Tuilinthel. They dislike all the other commanders, and they are loyal only to each other… and Legolas.” She smiled, but waved away Dwalin’s offer of more food. Her eyes slowly closing, she returned to the soft world of sleep, leaving Dwalin to shake his head fondly, patting her shoulder gently before he left.

 

* * *

 

 

When Legolas found Thranduil, he informed the King that he would be leaving, but the older elf did not seem pleased, pulling his son along and out of earshot of the dwarrow with a hard look.

“Explain yourself,” he hissed.

“What do you mean?” Legolas replied coldly, heart numbed by the pain of his earlier epiphany, “Rhonith will soon be awake, and our people are leaving Erebor. I am not needed here and winter is coming.”

“Were you not the one who wanted to win the lady’s heart?” Thranduil asked, bewildered by Legolas’s cold attitude. “Leaving hardly seems conducive to such a goal, _ionneg_.” His confusion only deepened when Legolas’s blue eyes turned stormy with unbridled fury.

“Conducive?” he whispered, his voice even colder than the blizzard that roared around the Mountain. Thranduil began to worry. “How could you…how dare you tell me to have hope?!” Legolas screamed, angry enough to want to punch the stone walls surrounding them, but Thranduil’s strong grip on his fist stopped him. “How dare you tell me to try, when you MUST have known she was in love with him!” he spat instead, taking out his anguish on the one who had convinced him to ignore what he had known the day he discovered his own heart.

“In love with him?” Thranduil asked, mystified by his son’s sudden outburst. For once, he was drawing an absolute blank regarding Legolas’s thoughts.

“ _Thalion_.” Legolas spat harshly, making it sound like a curse. “She was dreaming about him earlier. Called him _melethronneg,_ ” he said, the word a bitter poison on his tongue. Even if he had spent the rest of his years until the Remaking pining for her, it would still have been better than the sheer agony he was feeling now that he knew there had never been any hope to begin with.

“Legolas.” The tone of Thranduil’s voice – one that reminded all his children of long lectures and punishments delivered – finally broke through the red haze around the younger Elf on the third repetition of his name.

“Yes, Adar-nîn?” Legolas asked, feeling sheepish that he had lost his temper so abominably where anyone might have overheard. Thranduil’s firm hand on Legolas’ shoulder kept him where he was. Steering his obviously deluded son – after all, there was absolutely no way _Thalion_ had ever held her heart, the very idea was laughable – through the corridors, Thranduil came to a stop outside the door that led to Rhonith’s room. In his haste to leave, the Prince had left the door slightly ajar, and Rhonith’s voice, clear if a bit slurred by tiredness, wafted out of the door.

 

* * *

 

 

“Dori!” Bofur called, halting the tailor before Dori could leave the breakfast hall and return to work. Dori looked up sharply, alarmed by the tone of his voice.

“Bofur?” Dori asked, staring at the frazzled-looking miner. “You feeling well?”

“Aye, aye,” Bofur waved away Dori’s concern, making her blink in surprise at the wide smile he shot her. “Only I know you’re versed in all the old customs, right?” Dori nodded, wondering why Bofur of all people would be asking about their old traditions; he was hardly a traditional Dwarf, after all.

“I do know most of the ceremonies,” Dori said cautiously, but Bofur simply smiled and nodded happily.

“So, how do we go about claiming Bilbo as our cousin?” Bofur exclaimed excitedly.

“You want to claim Bilbo as a cousin?” Dori asked, incredulous. She’d known the miner was fond of their Burglar, but claiming him kin was something that extended far beyond the bond of Companions.

“Nono,” Bofur said, explaining when Dori frowned at him, “Bilbo IS our cousin. Well, he’s _Athalrún’s_ cousin – Bombur’s wife, y’ken – though I’m not quite sure how closely.”

“So, you want to do a Blood-Claim, to make him an official member of her House?” Dori asked, trying to follow his thoughts. “Bombur might have grounds, claiming kinship on behalf of his wife and dwarflings,” she mused, “but it’d have to be ratified when Athalrún got here, and you’d need to discover the degree of family connection. Athalrún would be the one to pledge the formal Claim to the King, and making the relation official – provided Master Baggins accepts it.” Bofur nodded along, thought Dori rather doubted he was listening; he had that look on his face. “Have you even told Bilbo of your suspicions?”

“Mahal’s beard!” Bofur gaped. “I forgot about that!” Dori felt smug. Bofur ran off, throwing a quick thanks over his shoulder as he sped off as quickly as his stick let him. Dori watched him go, a fond smile playing around her lips.

 

* * *

 

“…loyal only to each other… and Legolas.”

They had arrived at the tail end of the conversation and Thranduil’s heart leapt at hearing her speak so clearly. He could guess which story she had told the Dwarf, explaining her friendship with Thalion, but he wished they had returned sooner, so Legolas had heard it directly from her lips.

“Tell me, Legolas… Do you love her? Truly?” Thranduil whispered, pulling them both into the shadows as Dwalin’s solid figure passed them, a slight smile around his lips. He needed to have that confirmation, not only for his own sake, but for Legolas’ too.

“You know I do!” his son cried, “You knew years ago. You knew before _I_ did even! How can you ask me this?!” Frustration coloured his tone, but beneath it, Thranduil’s keen hearing detected an edge of despair.

“Because, _ionneg_ ,” he said quietly, drawing Legolas through the door of his own room, “your actions so far have not proven that you do. You spent centuries pining for her, but then when she was finally in your reach, you simply let her run away.” Staring at Legolas’ mulish expression, Thranduil let his words hang in the air between them for a moment. “It is not the first time you’ve done so, ionneg. You have had many chances over the years.” Thranduil sighed, “I don’t know where I went wrong with you on this, Legolas. How did I fail to teach you how to let yourself be loved?” he did not truly expect an answer, but Legolas’ face crumbled in anguish.

“I don’t know how she could ever love me, Ada…” he gulped, “I have never seen desire in her eyes when she looked at me. You ask me where you failed, but it is my failing. Today made it clear to me. She loved Thalion, and I am but a pale shadow compared to him. It is better if I am gone when she wakes in truth. I will go. I cannot see her, when each time I do only leaves my heart scarred, Ada.” Legolas’s eyes were closed, so he did not see Thranduil’s abject shock and misery at the words that were seemingly wrenched from his soul.

“Ionneg…” Thranduil wanted to wrap him in his robes, like he had done with Legolas was small, protecting him from every bad dream or fear that haunted him. “How can you claim that you are but a shadow of your brother? Thalion was my first-born and I loved him, but you… oh my little Leaf, you are so much better than Thalion ever became. Thalion was spoiled, something you have never been, and he could be arrogant and cold to those who were of lesser value to him. He and Rhonith managed to make friends, yes, but only because your mother insisted. Rhonith was fond of him, I’m sure, but I doubt she ever trusted my oldest son as much as she might have.” Thranduil smiled wryly, though Legolas didn’t seem to notice. “I know our people loved their prince, and I do not blame them for only speaking of his best qualities, which were indeed many.” Thinking about Thalion was less painful than it had once been, though Thranduil did not dwell on his fate often, preferring to remember fond moments and stories of his son, rather than his valiant but untimely end. “If you think yourself a shadow of the one who came before you… then I have truly failed you, Legolas, my most beloved son.” The thought was agonizing, not only that he should have been so gruesomely mistaken but also because he would have broken the one promise to Nínimeth he still dared believe he could keep. “Parents ought not to have favourites among their children, but Thalion was the star in my Nínimeth’s eyes.” Thranduil had always know that as a fact, though he had never minded it. If he were honest, however, he preferred Thandir and Legolas himself among his sons. Thandir had died many years ago, and Thranduil did not expect to be able to reconcile with the one twin who remained in Middle-Earth. “Thalion looked so much like her, red hair and green eyes, and the wild exuberance of the Silvans. I think his uncanny resemblance to her dead brother made Nínimeth love him more than any of our children. His death shattered her, because she had failed to protect him, just as she – in her mind – had failed to protect her baby brother from the warg that killed him as a young elf.” Legolas had known, of course, that his uncle had died when he was young, just as he had been told stories of Thranduil’s own long-departed siblings, but it was not the same as actually knowing the people involved. Mentally, Thranduil took a deep breath, preparing himself for the next things he would have to say, things he had hoped never to have to reveal beyond what he had already told Legolas about his naneth’s absence. “When she realised that she was pregnant again, she named you little leaf, a new beginning, a new elfling for her to keep safe. While you were a part of her body, she was…not well, but at least she seemed stable and in her own mind…when you were born, however…” Thranduil grimaced, the pain of his old scars never fading and now they were being writ across the face of the child he had thought to shield from them at all costs. He soldiered on, needing to get it all said before he allowed himself to stop for fear of tainting the image Legolas held of Nínimeth irreparably. “At first, she was fine, but I could see it in every action when she was alone with you. I started to let Rhonith sleep in Nínimeth’s room, simply to keep an eye on you, for your mother had all but banished me from your side.” In truth, he had never forgiven her for those weeks of mental anguish, though he had tried to bury himself in the ruling of his Adar’s Woodland Realm, which was – even though 7 years had passed since Dagorlad – still shambling to stick together. “When Nínimeth began forgetting that you were hers, it was a relief. I was finally allowed to hold you, without her screaming at me that I would cause your death. She blamed me, for Thalion,” Thranduil’s breath hitched, and silent tears were flowing down Legolas’ face for the pain he saw in his eyes, but the King continued hoarsely, “she blamed me for letting him go to war. She did not blame me for Thonnon losing an eye or for Thandir’s scars, though they were all… I did not want them to go, though I did not know how to stop them, how to stop Oropher…” He sighed, the wound no longer as raw is it had been, but still a reminder that he had failed to save his beloved wife from herself, had failed this child by taking away his mother. Silence fell between them.   
“Of my children,” Thranduil said, after long moments of staring blindly into the past only he could see, “you are the one I love best, ionneg. You have courage and valour, but you temper it with kindness. You can be rash, but you always make amends for any hurts you cause, punishing yourself for your failings far harder than I ever wanted for you. I’m afraid that, when I made your mother sail, I did you a disservice by sending Rhonith with her. If she had been there, your brothers never would have been able to fill your head with these ideas of being unworthy.” Thranduil cupped Legolas’ face, wiping the tears gently from the blue eyes that so mirrored his own. “You have never been unworthy, my child, you have always been loved, and if you let your fears destroy your own happiness, I will never forgive you. Or myself.”

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo felt a little worried, watching Bofur, a worrying glint in the miner’s eyes, stalk towards him, towing Bombur, who was still chewing on a piece of pork, and Bifur, who was studying one of the leaves from the Elven salad with a far-away look on his face.

“Bilbo!” Bofur called, making Bilbo wince at the unexpected volume.

“Yes, Bofur?” he asked, cautiously, suddenly reminded that he had believed Bofur was upset with him. Had the miner brought his family along to scold Bilbo?

“We’ve learned something that concerns you, Master Baggins,” Bofur said, in his most formal voice – the kind used when he had to inform relatives of a miner’s death – which made the Hobbit pale. Bifur nudged his cousin. Bofur scowled.

Before things could escalate, Bombur spoke up, his tone mild. “I think it is mine to say, nadad.” Bofur nodded, chastised. Bilbo began breathing again. He had no worries about Bombur being angry with him, having spoken to the architect just before breakfast with their usual camaraderie. “Master Baggins,” Bombur continued, “I have been informed that you are related to a certain Bull-roarer Took.” Bilbo could only nod. He wondered why that mattered to Bombur, whose only point in common was the wielding of a blunt weapon against Goblins… on the other hand, perhaps it was not such a surprise that the story of his famous great-uncle would interest Bombur, Bilbo mused, though he hadn’t seen the dwarf behead anyone with his battle-spoon.

“Yes,” he said, when he realised that they were waiting for a reply. Bofur’ smile lit up the world around him; Bilbo couldn’t help but return it. Bifur seemed quietly amused, but he often seemed that way to Bilbo who did not understand the twists and flicks of his fingers. “Bandobras ‘Bull-roarer’ Took was my great-uncle on my mother’s side, the brother of her great-grandfather.” Again, Bofur grinned at him, while Bombur looked thoughtful.

“You see, Master Baggins,” Bombur began, “I knew the story of Bull-roarer Took and the Goblins before you told it during dinner.” Bilbo gaped. He had not expected that.

“How?” he wondered, once more slightly unnerved by the sight of Bofur’s almost manic grin as the miner was practically vibrating with the effort of keeping quiet.

“My wife told me – and our dwarflings – the story,” Bombur revealed. “The story of Bull-roarer Took and his prowess at the War of Greenfields, where he beheaded the Goblin King with a club was an oft-repeated bedtime story for my dwarflings… because it was a story of my wife’s kin.”

“Your wife’s… kin?” Bilbo was reeling. Could Bombur be saying what he thought he was saying?

“The grandson of Athalrún’s great-grandmother’s brother,” Bombur clarified, “my Athalrún’s great-grandmother was Adaldrida Proudfoot, who married the Dwarf blacksmith Svari.”

Bilbo could only stare. He had known, of course, that Dwarrow outlived Hobbits by quite a margin, but still… there were four generations between him and Bandobras Took, and a total of six between him and this Adaldrida Proudfoot. Finding actual blood-kin among the Company – even though it was a relation by marriage, Bombur had children with this part-Hobbit Dwarf, which made him family among Hobbits – was not something he had expected.

Bofur’s smile was slowly dimming the longer their Hobbit remained frozen to the spot, staring at them as though he could see straight through them. Bombur – who had a better understanding of Hobbit aging – was simply waiting for Bilbo to collect himself, and Bifur was humming something that sounded absentminded, but was really a part of the Song of Peace, meant for soothing the mind. He didn’t much care whether the Hobbit’s mind would even be affected by the Song, enjoying the Mountain’s response in his mind either way.

 

* * *

 

 

“So,” Bilbo said, shakily, when he had gathered his thoughts. “You are my cousin?” he asked, looking at Bombur, who nodded. Bofur’s smile had dimmed considerably, though he tried to rekindle the joy of discovery he had felt earlier. “Does it matter to you?”

“Of course, it matters to me,” Bombur replied, keeping his voice low, unconsciously calming Bilbo much like when he was soothing one of his dwarflings waking from a bad dream. The Hobbit’s smile was tremulous at best, but Bombur counted it a win nonetheless. “You are our friend, Bilbo Baggins, and discovering that you are our kin is simply an extra joy I get to share with my family when they arrive.” Bombur was imagining the look on Athalrún’s face – initial scepticism giving way to belief and then joy that she would get to introduce her dwarflings to Hobbit-kin that did not subtly fear them for being Dwarrow.

“We wanted to speak to you about making it official, claiming you as our kin in the annals of our race.” Bofur interjected, startling Bilbo who had clear forgotten the presence of the two other dwarrow, all his attention on considering Bombur’s words and implications.

“Why?” he asked, feeling horribly guilty at the way Bofur’s face fell at what he had perceived as an innocent query rather than the abject denial the three Dwarrow seemed to be hearing.

“ **Damâm uru 'aban**[283].” Bofur muttered, shooting Bilbo a final hurt glance before he dragged off Bombur. Bilbo stared confusedly at Bifur, who shrugged, but gave him a slight push in the direction of Dori, who was eating with one of the rubble crews.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I expect you have questions, Master Baggins,” Dori said calmly, when the Burglar appeared at her elbow. Rising at the sight of Bilbo’s worried frown, she gently grasped his elbow and steered him out of the hall, finding a private corner in which to talk.

“Bombur told me that I am distantly related to his wife,” Bilbo began, hesitantly. Dori nodded; she had already known that, of course. “And then Bofur was talking about making the claim official or something, but when I asked them why they’d bother, he just looked so sad, and mumbled something in Khuzdul about stone.” Bilbo was feeling horribly guilty already, Dori could see it in his round face.

“Blood over stone? Damâm uru ‘aban,” she guessed, the sentiment more than applicable in the situation. Truly, they all considered Bilbo more than a friend, and even though his claim for kinship was not the same as the one Dori felt for her Zarsthurunana or Thorin for his ‘Auntie Sharul’, Dori was prepared to wager that he ranked closer than many cousins in the hearts and minds of the Company.

“I don’t understand,” Bilbo whispered. Dori suppressed her sigh; of course, they couldn’t expect a Hobbit to think like a Dwarf.

“You are considered a Dwarf by honour and the title of **‘Ubahu Khazâd** , as the Trial demonstrated,” Dori explained patiently. “Damâm uru ‘aban is one of the cornerstones of our society, Bilbo. Literally, it says Blood over Stone, but it means that we value our family above everything, above wealth or Craft or friendship…” Dori smiled, noting the expression Bilbo usually wore just before he voiced an objection at her last statement, “or at least we aspire to do so.”

“I still don’t quite get why Bofur was so sad when I asked them why. Why would they want to…” he trailed off, looking miserable.

“Because we care for you, Master Baggins,” Dori admitted quietly. “All of us do, though I think Bofur is fonder than most when it comes to you. You should have seen him the evening after we had lowered you down to the Elves… Blood over Stone is ancient law, Bilbo, and by claiming you their kin, the ‘Urs are adding to your status, calling you their own for the rest of time. It means your descendants may call upon them for aid, and they would be obligated to you and yours just as you would be to them. For Bofur, the offer was probably also a way to signify that he forgave you truly and fully for everything that happened before the Battle. He spent hours searching the field for you, looking for a chance to apologise…” Dori felt slightly awkward revealing that much. Bofur might be a jocular and outgoing Dwarf, but he kept many of his deeper feelings to himself; it was not Dori’s right to speculate.

“But-” Bilbo began, but Dori swept his objections away with a wave of her hand.

“You are quite a singular Hobbit, Bilbo. Before we met you, it was Bofur’s stated opinion that Hobbits were good for only two things: making of food and pipeweed. There was a third thing he had heard of your people, but I shouldn’t feel right to say it.” Dori said primly, satisfied that the blush that stained the Hobbit’s cheeks meant he understood her meaning. “We thought your people soft and delicate, but you have proven yourself capable and strong; traits valued among our kin. The ‘Urs are an old House, their roots stretch far back, and though they are not nobles – until now, that is – they have always been considered good Dwarrow. For them to claim you their kin is an acceptance of all that you are being tied to all that they are until the Remaking of the World.”

“I’m just a Hobbit, though!” Bilbo objected.

“And so was Athalrún’s ancestor,” Dori retorted drily. “You have value to us, Bilbo, yet you refuse to let us show that in ways that make sense to others of our race, which – to the average Dwarf who doesn’t know or understand your absurd notions of your own value in comparison to ours – means that you do not feel the same way. It means that you consider the accolades we try to bestow upon you less than valuable, that you consider _us_ – by extension – less than your own kind.” Dori had not put it quite so bluntly when she had scolded Bilbo for trying to object to the titles listed for him during the Trial, but apparently that lecture had not been effective enough. When the small body launched itself at her without more warning than a wordless cry of dismay, Dori felt slightly guilty – had she been too blunt? Listening to Bilbo’s babble of apology slightly muffled against her chest, however, put paid to that thought. When the Hobbit froze, his torrent of words stopping as abruptly as he let her go, his cheeks flaming cherry-red as he stepped away from her, Dori almost wanted to laugh at him mortification.

“Sorry!” Bilbo squeaked. “You! Breasts!” Looking like he expected a swift end to be an undeserved mercy, Bilbo seemed to lose all coherency in the face of Dori’s best kept secret. She sighed.

“It’s alright, Bilbo, you didn’t know,” she soothed, keeping her voice low and calm, just like when Ori used to wake in the night from bad dreams and climbing into her bed for comfort. “Hush now, I’m not angry.”

“Promise?” the Hobbit looked unconvinced when Dori just nodded, still seemingly reeling from the realisation that she was, in fact, a bona fide dwarrowdam.

“I promise. Now, go think about what Bofur offered and stop trying to make yourself seem less important than you are.” Gently turning the Hobbit around, giving him a slight nudge to get him moving, Dori adopted her most mothering tones, herding the slightly shaken Bilbo towards the house Bombur had claimed.

 

 

 

 

 

[283] Blood over stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we return to Ered Luin!


	55. Wagons and Ways

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is melancholy goodbyes, hopeful beginnings and a bit of interspecies understanding.

Their ploy, pretending that Vakri had been wrong and there had only ever been one pebble, had worked, no questions asked. The traditional resting period after birth ensured that no visitors disturbed Vár, who had long-since taken the room that used to belong to Frís as her own. Vár cared for her daughter, feeding her and singing to her as all new mothers did, but Dís had also seen the times when she would stay silent for hours, staring at the small casket that held Glóvarin’s remains. Dís could not help but worry about that, though she carefully did not interfere, allowing Vár the space to spend with her dead son or not as she wished. She felt bad for Gimli, whose excitement over his new sibling remained visibly tempered by grief but who had to keep the secret when he was in public. The lad was growing up fast, and though he had already been fairly mature – more so than Kíli at that age, at least – it still hurt to see the last of his dwarfling innocence stripped away so harshly. Gimli had only met death once before, when his sigin’adad died, but Gróin had been old and he had had both his parents to help him through grieving. This time, Vár was alone, and her grief seemed to hold little space for that of others, even her son. Instead, Gimli spoke with Dís, and spent most of his days with Bolbur, who was working in the forges. Gimli’s skills were those of a warrior born, though he had been trained for a role of diplomat or merchant as well, and he didn’t particularly enjoy smithing. Bolbur, however, was one of the few who knew the truth of Gimli’s stillborn brother, and the younger blacksmith provided a silent source of comfort to the distraught dwarfling.

Athalrún came by every morning, which Dís appreciated, even if it went against tradition with a new-born in the house to let anyone who wasn’t immediate family through the door. The quiet blacksmith had the excuse of visiting Dís herself, helping to organise the rosters of those who would join the first caravan. She did do that, of course, though her contribution was minor, most of the work of provisioning and security better left in the experienced hands of Nýr and Álfífa.  
Instead, Athalrún spent an hour or more sitting with Vár, usually in silence, their shared grief a thing Dís could only partially relate to, having lost no children of her own.

 

* * *

 

The bird that delivered a message in the early morning hours had spoken tersely, in Dwalin’s tormented voice, but his words had let her breathe freely for the first time since she had watched her whole family set off on what many considered a suicidal quest.

“War, Dís,” he had begun, and she had heard the tears in his words, though Dwalin remained steady; the Captain reporting to his sovereign. Not for the first time, Dís praised whomever had ensured that Dwalin met Thorin and became a part of her small family. “Azog came to the Mountain with an army of Orcs. We have won our home for good, with the aid of Dáin and the Elvenking. Fíli has lost an eye, but will mend; Thorin’s left arm is gone. Kíli…Kíli has lost a leg to an evil poison, but the Elves say they can heal him. I cut off your son’s leg, sister, for Thorin was too weak. I am well.” Dís had wanted to cry, though she could not say if it was pain or joy that fuelled her tears. Instead, she had hoarsely asked the raven to repeat his message, over and over, until her tears had stopped. Her sons… her sons were alive and her brothers also. _By the grace of Mahal and Elven healers_ , she thought, sending a heartfelt prayer of gratitude to the Maker. It was more than she had dared hope for, hearing Dwalin’s voice from the raven’s beak rather than Thorin’s.

 

* * *

 

“Bad news, Dís?” Vár asked, coming to her door and staring at her cousin, who was not yet dressed though the hour approached midday. Spying the raven, Vár feared the worst as she noticed the tracks of tears spilled, but the smile – wan, but still a smile – that Dís sent her made her suddenly galloping heart slow down once more.

“No, cousin,” Dís replied, shaky as she made the raven repeat his message. Vár paled. It was good news… for Dís, but Vár couldn’t help but wish that the message had come from her own loved ones, feeling a clamouring need for reassurance she knew would not be silenced until she held her husband in her arms once more. Quite possibly she’d need to beat him round the head with something too, though she hadn’t yet decided whether the punishment should happen before or after she kissed him breathless and introduced him to their new family addition.

“Does…does he know if Glóin…” she hardly dared ask, but the raven croaked a small no, shaking its head at the question. Dís squeezed Vár’s hand in sympathy. Not knowing was worse than many things, but waiting for news you feared were bad was even worse than knowing nothing at all. Dís almost wished she had thought to keep the news of the Battle from Vár, but rationally, she knew that Vár would have known something was awry within days – even preoccupied with grief and her new daughter, Vár remained sharp as a blade and shrewdly observant. Dís was a decent enough actress to be able to conceal her true opinion when she spoke to the nobles and the guild masters, but Vár knew her better than most and Dís knew she’d never manage to hide something this big from Vár’s keen eyes.

“The patterned one came to us late, asked one to fly, fly to far-away home where Ribril had gone. Wolcen did not feast on orc-flesh with his brothers and sisters,” it croaked sadly, snapping its beak at imaginary corpse-meat. Vár shuddered. It was easy to forget that even the talking Ravens were carrion birds at times. “The patterned one was not sad like Wolcen when brother of Wolcen was eaten by dragon,” it continued philosophically, with more intelligence than either Dwarf had expected a Raven to possess, “but Wolcen does not know if the patterned one is the same as Wolcen. Wolcen saw the red one, when he flew over the camp, and the white one talking with the grey wizard. Wolcen saw no others of the Lord-Dwarrow that Roäc called friend under Mountain. Wolcen did not learn their screech.”

“Red one… could be Glóin. Patterned one is Dwalin, obviously, and the white one Balin,” Dís mused, while Vár nodded, relieved that her husband might still be alive. “What is a screech?” Dís asked. Wolcen tilted his head, considering her with his black beady eyes.

“Screech is how your flock know you. Wolcen screech Wolcen, Carc ruler-of-flock screech Carc. Roäc screech Roäc,” he explained, tilting his head and glittering at them with his black eyes, reminding Dís of some of Balin’s lecturing postures to an almost scary degree.

“Name,” Vár said, “the screech is their word for name.” Pointing to herself, she said “Vár.” When Wolcen nodded, she pointed to Dís.

“Dís,” Wolcen cawed proudly. “Patterned one said to find screech Dís. Ribril tell Wolcen where.” He looked proud of that fact and Dís wondered if Wolcen was actually a low-ranking raven compared to Ribril; did Ravens have grunt workers and nobles?

“I came to tell you that Nýr is here. She wants your final approval for the people who are going,” Vár said, bringing Dís back to more immediate concerns. From the other room, a loud cry revealed Várdís’ unhappiness with the state of her world, her mother’s briefly harried look Vár’s only reaction before the dark-haired dwarrowdam hurried off to answer the siren call of her hungry daughter.

 

* * *

 

“Dís Uzbad,” Nýr bowed formally when Dís, having hastily braided her hair and dressed in the first thing she laid her hands on, entered her study.

“Mistress Nýr.” Dís replied with a regal nod. “Shall we go over the lists?”

 

When Nýr left the Royal residence, her long lists had been pared down until they were left with around fifty dwarrow who would come along for their skills and Crafts, and an extra ten who would guard the caravan and report to Shumrozbid Dwalin upon arrival. Dís had asked Álfífa to remain in Ered Luin, and the Shamâr were led by Boril, one of the younger officers. The number of trained guardsdwarrow was kept low by the simple fact that most dwarrow were more than capable of defending themselves. Boril – a distant cousin of the ‘Urs – had mostly signed on to keep an eye on Athalrún and the children, as a favour to his Amad, who ran that branch of the clan like a seasoned general. Nýr herself, as well as her husband Ginnar, would be leading the caravan, their authority superseding Dís’s in matters of setting camp and other travel-related decisions.

 

* * *

 

Walking through the first and only home she had truly known, Dís saw again Fíli’s first tottering steps through the kitchen, Víli’s proud smile as he called for all of them to come look. Kíli had taken his outside, running after his brother and being caught by Thorin’s large hand when he stumbled. She remembered days when she had had one dwarfling hanging off each of her forearms, shrieking with laughter as she let them swing through the air. Frís gentle smile greeted her when she stepped into the sitting room, the comfortable stuffed chair that her amad had favoured for sewing still in its customary place, a basket of yarns beside it. Adad had never liked the house Thorin had built and Dís had made a proper home, but after he disappeared Frís had not wished to be alone in the house they had shared. They had added another room for her, next to the one Víli had built when they married, extending Dís’ old bedroom into a small sitting room. The rooms were silent now, the occupants long gone; only traces of them remained, and there was a certain melancholy in leaving this place that had been home for so long to chase after a dream that had never died, even if Dís herself had no true memories of Erebor’s grandeur. Looking through the room Fíli and Kíli had shared – refusing to have separate rooms even as they grew old enough that sharing wasn’t always comfortable – Dís felt curiously happy to spot the ‘Kee bed’ carved in slightly wonky Cirth into the wall above Kíli’s bed. Here was proof that her sons had lived in this house, had called it home, had been happy. She wondered if – had Erebor never been lost – she would still have found her One, had had her dwarflings? Would Kíli and Fíli have been the same Fíli and Kíli? Would they have idolized their Uncle as much if they had not grown up without their adad? Dís knew it was unkind to ask that, but sometimes she felt jealous on Víli’s behalf, seeing the way Thorin and Dwalin played with her sons. She felt jealous of the time stolen from all of them, wondered if she would have teased Víli about silvering strands in his golden hair like Dwalin had teased Thorin or whether there might have been more pebbles in her future after Kíli. Dís rather thought there might have, even if she had been close to dying bringing Kíli into the world. She would have wanted to try again, give her boys a baby sister to spoil and be proud of, the same way Thorin and Frerin had spoiled her.

“You should go to bed, Dís,” Vár said quietly, startling her cousin from whatever reverie she had fallen into, sitting on Fíli’s bed and stroking the worn blanket that covered it. “We have to leave at first light, get a good start to our journey.”

“You’re right, cousin,” Dís replied, feeling as though their roles had been suddenly reversed; she had been the one to remind Vár that they would be leaving soon for so long, it felt almost surreal to be on the other side of the conversation. Smiling, Dís got to her feet. Pausing for one last look at the boys’ bedroom, Dís took Vár’s hand and let her lead them both to the kitchen, silently agreeing that a cup of warm tea – not the one Frís used to make to end the day, but a not-entirely-terrible substitute Dís had found at the midsummer market – was needed before they attempted to sleep. Wee Gimli had already been in bed for hours; his exalted jumping around at the prospect of their long journey had tired him out nicely, letting the two dams finish their last preparations in blessed quietude.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, leaving Ered Luin was a surprisingly simple affair. Dís’s own wagon was filled with the stores of foodstuff she had gathered for the coming winter along with clothes and a few sentimental knick-knacks she did not wish to leave behind, be it her own or one of her ‘boys’’s. Even if their clothes were not fine enough for the King and Princes they were now, their old clothes would fit better than most that could be found in Erebor. Dís also packed a few of her mother’s keepsakes, as well as the stone caskets that held her ashes and Víli’s. The statue of Thrór, and the one of Thraín, also made it into boxes packed with straw for the journey.  
Vár and Gimli, as well as little Várdís, joined their cousin’s wagon, though they brought only the essentials; Vár was intending to return to her home with her husband beside her to decide what to move.

Athalrún, of course, had already packed her own wagon, filled to the brim with the things that filled both her own house and the one shared by Bifur and Bofur. The dwarflings dutifully helped her pack, stacking the many chests and boxes carefully in order to make a small nest where the youngest could rest, or Athalrún could take a moment to herself to feed little Bomba. Blidarún helped Vakri carefully pack as many medicines and healer’s herbs from Óin’s practice as could be stowed in his chest. The healer himself had acquired only a small cart, large enough for a small chest of clothes and the larger chest of remedies. Vakri had not decided whether he would stay in Erebor permanently, and left many things behind with the assumption that he would at least return to pack up properly one day. Half of the things he brought were technically Óin’s belongings, including the large handwritten ledger of medicines where Óin had faithfully written down all the recipes for his remedies. Vakri had his own copy, of course, and so did Master Mjoll, Óin’s first apprentice and soon to be the only Master healer in Thorinuldûm.

 

* * *

 

 

The morning dawned bright and clear, a crisp bite of winter’s chill in the air though no snow had yet fallen in Ered Luin, a blessing for the travellers who hoped to reach the lower foothills that day, where the mountains gave way to the rolling hills. Dís had decided to go through the Shire, which Nýr had recommended for the chance to re-provision in Hobbiton, stretching their own supplies with what they could buy from the Hobbits there before heading to Bree where they might be able to get salted pork and sausages.

The long caravan moved slowly through the Mountains. Every Dwarf in their settlement had turned out to watch the departure of the Princess, and Dís waved to all of them, keeping a smile on her face through sheer willpower. Vár was hidden in the wagon, feeding Várdís, while Gimli was walking with Bolbur, having struck up a firm friendship with the Dwobbit since the night of Várdís’ birth.

“It is almost odd to be leaving,” Athalrún mused, when they left the last house hidden by a bend in the road. “I haven’t left Thorinuldûm since Bolbur was born for longer than a few weeks to visit Amad.” Athalhilda lived a few days travel north, in an old Broadbeam village where Radvari’s family had their homes and Athalrún herself had been born. Strapped to her front and wrapped in warm furs, little Bomba was sleeping peacefully.

“It is,” Dís agreed, looking back at the hopeful faces behind them. “Will your Amad be among the ones who resettle in Erebor?” She hadn’t wondered about it before, Athalrún rarely speaking of Athalhilda, though their relationship was as loving as the one Dís had shared with Frís.

“I hope so. She and my Uncle Sindri said they’d join us when we had settled in. I think she wanted to be near the dwarflings,” Athalrún said. “She is getting on in years and with Adad gone, Sindri is her only relative living here. Aurvari moved to the Orocarni a lifetime ago, and we only hear from him every few years when a merchant trader cares to bring letters from Red Peak.”

Dís nodded. She understood rare communications with faraway relatives, even if she was fortunate enough that hers usually met every few years if not more often; being the ruling family of Durin’s Folk had some perks even in exile.

 

As she walked along, sparing the mules pulling her wagon from bearing the extra weight until they reached more flat terrain, Dís allowed her mind to fly far ahead of their slow-moving train of wagons, wondering how her sons fared in Erebor, not even aware that they had already set off. Wolcen had obligingly agreed to take the message of their departure to Thorin, as they had left before the possible return of the letter Dís had asked him to write when she sent back Ribril. Dís was reasonably sure she had brought along dwarrow with all the necessary skills to both keep them alive through the first year of resettling – she did know that Men believed all Dwarrow incapable of farming, but that was a fallacy on par with the one about there being no female Dwarrow – and begin working the mines that had made Erebor the wealthiest Kingdom in Middle-Earth aside from the lost Khazad-dûm of old. They would – with a little luck – arrive just in time for the early spring planting, which Dís quietly hoped was an option. Several younger sons of her more prosperous farmers had come along – against promises of reasonably sized farms near Erebor, of course – eager to make their own fortunes, which would help tremendously with keeping Erebor fed. One of the farmer’s sons had even brought a rooster and three hens, intending to create a steady supply of poultry, she assumed, but she had noticed the lad selling the eggs the hens lay in their straw-padded crates to those who travelled near him. She had ordered a few eggs per week for Vár’s and Athalrún’s sakes, secretly, in an attempt to stave off the cessation of milk she feared their journey might cause for as long as possible. The lad, no older than her own Kíli, had flushed at receiving the attention of the Princess herself, but he had been more than happy to promise her all the eggs she wanted when he realised that they were to go to the two nursing dams. In truth, they had been offered many spare supplies when Dís’ announcement had gone out, many families feeling generous towards those who would be missing the festivities of **Iklaladranamrâg**[284] as well as the more sombre occasion of **Nurtu Mamahrân**[285], the day dedicated to honouring those who burned in Azanulbizar.

 

The fifteen wagons that made up the caravan were all stacked precariously with crates and boxes, food and clothes and knickknacks all jumbled up in as few wagons as possible. Dis’ own wagon and Athalrún’s were the most packed wagons, containing almost two households packed in boxes, but many of those who were joining the first wave of re-settlers were leaving family behind, who would join them in Erebor when the trip was not as perilous. The wagons were ingeniously designed so they could be disassembled if necessary and reassembled later; something she had thought would be useful in crossing the Misty Mountains. The sturdy ponies and mules they had rented to pull the wagons could be loaded with the boards and wheels, while the dwarrow carried their belongings. Dís had decreed that most tools be left behind, limiting the craftsmen chosen to their two favourites, in the expectation that Erebor would have more than enough tools of equal or better quality. Keeping numbers down was the hardest part, for although they would be travelling through the worst of winter, many wanted the honour of being among the first to see Erebor reclaimed.

 

Dís was under no illusion that the journey would be easy, travelling through winter weather and probably encumbered by snowfalls before long. She simply hoped that the snows would not hit them as they tried to cross the Misty Mountains, still unsure whether they should try to make for the Gap of Rohan instead of crossing north of Rivendell and going through the High Pass there. If the mountains were blocked by snow, the added travel time south and back north from Rohan would tax their supplies, but it would be safer too, and Ginnar claimed that they would pass villages there where they could purchase grains and salted beef. For now, they would head for Hobbiton and then follow the Old East Road to Bree, deciding on their choice of crossing later.

 

* * *

 

 

Far to the East, Glóin was moving through the gloomy darkness of Mirkwood in winter – even worse than Mirkwood in late summer, he thought.

They had seen no evidence of the spiders that infested the southern parts of Mirkwood, and the forest was not as oppressively gloomy as it had been when they first crossed it, Glóin found, though the bare branches of the beech-wood area they had crossed yesterday was hardly an improvement, looking starkly depressing against the whiteness of the snow. Today, they had been travelling through massive firs and pines – Glóin wasn’t sure which was which, but he’d decided it was better not to ask – which had an uncanny tendency to drop loads of snow on his head with disturbing regularity. Glóin could feel some of it melting in cold fingers down his spine, though most was deterred by his thick hair and beard. Patting the red bushiness fondly, Glóin spurred his elk onwards with one of the commands Horthonion had taught him in Elvish. He had been granted loan of an elk to ride, thanking Mahal that it was a smaller specimen than Celegrandir. The animal was a placid enough beast, and deceptively strong, he knew; it had to be, Dwarrow were not particularly _light_ creatures. Ahead of him rode Tuilinthel, her hair dark against the white snow and the green pine needles.

 

“We will be leaving the trees soon,” Tuilinthel informed him, when she and Arastor dismounted simultaneously, needing little communication to decide anything, and began to make camp. After nine days of the twins’ constant presence, Glóin was used to the silence in which they communicated, unable to discern how they always seemed to know what the other wanted without gesture or word. Glóin felt oddly comforted by the terse silence of his companions. He was pretty sure that neither Elf liked him or the journey through the winter landscape, unlike Horthonion, who spoke with him regularly, which made him appreciate the small seal Prince Legolas had handed him when he left Erebor. It wasn’t until they were presented with the small token that the twins even began to believe that Horthonion’s relayed orders were genuine. Glóin wondered why Legolas hadn’t simply written his orders down, sealing them with his mark instead of handing him a small piece of wood, but no one else had batted an eyelid so he had decided that discretion was the better part of valour and held his tongue, curbing his fiery temper. Horthonion had warned Glóin not to speak ill of the King or the Prince of Mirkwood – Glóin had resented that warning a bit, he was well aware that he owed the Princeling a debt of gratitude he might never be able to repay. He had also warned him that the twins were notoriously insular – even among Elves – and had more than enough in their own company. That warning had been his last piece of advice before Horthonion went to find his wife, the thought of his happy reunion enough to make Glóin wish he could fly on the back of an Eagle until he reached his own beloved wife. Unfortunately, the Eagles had returned from the field of battle as swiftly as they had appeared, and probably wouldn’t have agreed to the job either way, he admitted, remembering Lord Gwaihir’s words on top of the Carrock.

 

 “How far to the Misty Mountains?” Glóin asked, sparking his firelighter and catching the sparks with the ease of long practice. After the first night, he’d assigned himself the task of making the fire; apparently Elves didn’t feel the cold the same way he did. It took him little time to coax a flame forth; Galion the steward had seen them well supplied with the Mirkwood tree bits that had so arrested Thorin’s attention on their first journey and Glóin was beginning to appreciate the Elf’s foresight more with every passing day. Elves might not get cold, seemingly able to walk atop the snow every time they made camp, but Glóin – while hardy like all Dwarrow – did feel the chill seeping into his bones once the sun set.

“We shall reach the riverlands tomorrow,” Arastor said tersely, the most words he’d uttered at once thus far. Tuilinthel was only slightly more verbose, though her conversation mostly concerned itself with the next legs of their journey or ordering a change in their direction. Glóin was grateful for the two trackers; Arastor spent most of the day away from them, bringing back small game and probably news of the terrain ahead, though he didn’t share them with the Dwarf. Tuilinthel was the one who actually led him through the trees, following no path Glóin could discern and yet she never seemed lost. If he hadn’t been relying on that exact skill Glóin would have found her self-confidence vexing beyond endurance. As it was, he simply told himself that he’d be pleased when he could farewell his silent companions in Rivendell.

“We will need to cross the Greylin where it merges with the Rimdath; the crossing is little more than a day’s travel from our borders, depending on weather conditions.” Tuilinthel continued, coming up behind Glóin on silent feet. “When we are on the other side of the Anduin,” Tuilinthel began scratching a rough map in the snow that covered the ground beneath the conifers, “we will head south, skirting the mountain foothills. We will have to choose between High Pass and Low Pass to get through the Mountains, depending on the amount of snow there.”

“The Elks can find their way home from there,” Arastor interjected, making his twin nod. Nothing further was spoken that night, and the abrupt end to the conversation no longer surprised Glóin, who privately compared the two Elves to the most miserly Dwarf-merchants he knew – excepting that they seemed to hoard words rather than gold, giving them out as sparingly as the rarest diamonds.

 

 

 

notes:

[284] Winter Fest(Yule), starts 20th ’Afdush and ends a month later – Dís’ caravan leaves Ered Luin settlement on 15th ‘afdush, Dwalin’s message(sent during early morning of Nov 25) arrived on dec 10 = 12 ‘afdush.

[285] 27th ’afdush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think... should we get to see Dís vs Rivendell? :p


	56. Confessions and Carving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A somewhat short chapter this week; I've been procrastinating too much o.O

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of this chapter was also turned into a short Bifur one-shot called Pockets of silence.

“Rhonith...” Legolas said, brokenly, entering her chamber just before breakfast, staring in disbelief at the elleth in the large bed. Blue eyes open in a face that remained too bony for comfort, blinking up at him. She smiled, gentle and sweet.

“ _Glasseg_...” she whispered the name hoarsely, her voice scratchy with sleep.

“You're awake,” he whispered, filled with so much wonder it was almost disbelief. He had listened to her speak to Dwalin, but when he had left Thranduil’s rooms, filled with so many thoughts and emotions he thought his head might explode, she had been asleep again, looking for all the world as though she had not woken at all. “Truly awake.” Legolas sank down onto the chair by the bedside, staring at the sleepy-looking elleth in the bed. Rhonith reached a hand towards him. Gripping it tightly, as though he could give her his strength if he squeezed her hand with enough force, Legolas lifted his eyes to look at her face.

“I am awake, _Glasseg_ ,” she murmured, a tired smile gracing her features. In centuries past, the old nickname had waned in use, but he appreciated her returning to the moniker. It was proof, conclusive _proof_ that she knew him, that she _remembered_ him.

Legolas broke, tears running down his face as a hope he had almost not dared to nurture was rewarded.

“I was so scared,” he whispered, so low only elven hearing might catch the confession. Trapped in his fist, Rhonith's fingers fluttered weakly.

“ _Glasseg_ ,” she whispered back, pulling lightly. He did not know what she intended, but Legolas wrapped himself around her on top of the covers, her hand still warm inside his fist. Placing his head on her chest, he felt his heart race.

“I can't, I can't!” He cried out, almost panicked that his pulse drowned out the sound of hers.

“Shhh, Glasseg, I am well.” She murmured softly, her free hand moving slowly up to rest lightly on his ear, her strokes languid but providing comfort all the same. As he drew the smell of her in through his nose, felt the living warmth of her bony frame beneath his cheek, his heart slowed until he could hear the even beats of hers. Neither spoke for a long time.

 

* * *

 

Legolas slept. For the first time since the battle, he fell into true sleep, the sound of a heart beating wending through dreams he would not remember when he woke up.

* * *

 

“Sellig,” Thranduil said, abject surprise on his face as he entered the room silently, in search of his son who had not been present for morning meal. Rhonith smiled at the stern elf. Legolas did not wake.

“Atheg,” she greeted, watching him crumble in relief. His hand found hers where it lay along Legolas’s ear, curving around his jaw. Threading his own fingers through hers, he squeezed gently, reaching out to move a few strands of mithril away from her face. Most of her hair was contained in what Dori called sleeping braids, but a few tendrils escaped here and there.

“You scared me, sellig. You scared _us_.” Thranduil stroked her ear, letting the confession hang in the air between them. Legolas continued to breathe evenly, deeply asleep. “Please, please don't do something that reckless again... Please.” Thranduil had not begged for anything in millennia, but he was pleading now. The blue eyes that met his own gaze were familiar, but Thranduil still sucked in a breath at the look he caught there. Somehow, his Rhonith seemed more… _Rhonith_ - _y_ now than she ever had, even before she lost her memories.

“I promise, Atheg, I’m sorry.” Rhonith swore. As her eyes fell shut once more, Thranduil bent, pressing a kiss to her forehead. He settled in the bedside chair, content to watch over his beloved children as long as they slept. The tears that escaped his blue eyes went unnoticed, simply sliding down his face.

 

* * *

 

 

When Dori bustled into the room with lunch on a tray, she felt almost as though she was interrupting when she caught sight of the three pale-haired Elves; two fast asleep, curled into each other, while the last one sat beside their bed. She had the odd thought that Thranduil possessed the ability to make any chair – even the simple wooden one he occupied now – seem throne-like, just because of the way he sat. it was a ridiculous notion, considering they had all seen him lounging insouciantly on his throne, long legs draped over the arm-rest and a goblet of wine precariously perched where a careless move would send it tumbling into the depths below. Even so, he had had the bearing of a King, and the childish posture did not diminish it, just as the simple furniture failed to do so now.

“Good day, Mistress Dori,” Thranduil greeted – Dori was getting tired of Elves knowing what they ought not know, she thought waspishly, glaring at the back of his pale head.

“Elvenking,” she replied frostily, surprised when Thranduil laughed.

“If you insist on being male, I shall remember, Mistress,” he chuckled, “but Lord Nurtalëon is not the only one to know the truth that shines with the colour of your hair.”

“The Prince seemed unable to believe it.” Dori said, putting the tray down on the small table and looking at the collection of oddly carved figurines. She wondered why she felt a stab of satisfaction at being referred to by her own gender by these people, but it made her thoughtful. Perhaps it was time to start referring to herself as a dam again?

“My son is not the most scholarly of Elves, Mistress Dori,” the Elvenking replied bemusedly, “and although he was always fond of Rhonith’s stories of your people, I don’t think he would have noticed a recurring hair-colour in the ladies of your line…” Dori just nodded. It wasn’t as though her own people knew either, she rationalised, as they simply took their cues from the way she braided her hair.

 

* * *

 

 

Entering the small council chamber where they’d been holding their somewhat infrequent meetings, Thranduil exuded a sense of peace. For the first time in many years, he _felt_ peaceful. There was nothing more he had kept from his son, and though he expected some sort of eruption of temper on Legolas’ behalf – his son was like him in more ways than his looks, but his temper came from both parents, Thranduil thought – Thranduil felt like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Simultaneously, he felt aggrieved that he had not managed to keep the promise he had made to his infant son on the last day he had seen Nínimeth; his promise to shield the elfling from his naneth’s fate.

“Ah, my Lord Thranduil, there you are,” Balin greeted, though Thranduil just nodded absentmindedly at the Dwarf, silently moving to take his place beside Rusgon, who would be keeping notes for him. He exchanged another nod with Bard, who was seated opposite, flanked by someone Thranduil recognized as a merchant on his left side and his eldest daughter on the other.

“King Bard, Princess Sigrid,” he said, politely answering their greetings. He made another nod in the direction of the dark-haired Dwarf who was already frowning, which puzzled Thranduil more than it worried him. The meetings were exceedingly tedious, Thranduil knew, and the blame for much of the drawn-out bickering could be placed squarely at his feet. Of course, he was deliberately being his haughtiest self, the rigidly implacable Elvenking. Aiming a smirk in King Thorin’s direction, Thranduil wondered that he had not yet managed to make the Dwarf’s temper explode completely. It puzzled him, and when he was puzzled, he was wary. He almost wished he had brought his winter crown, dark ebony with sharp pointy crystals made to look like icicles, making him appear even more intimidating in his black silk robes with the jet-bead embroidery and silver-thread vines. He wondered what Thorin would say if he knew that his grandmother had made the robe, though Rhonith had shaped the crystals for the crown to complement it.  
There was no telling whether the goldsickness was truly gone, after all, Thorin being the first to come out of the gold-induced stupor and Thranduil did not trust the meeker King under the Mountain he was seeing. He did not know that his thoughts mirrored Balin’s, but if he had, he might only have worried more. To that end, he spent a lot of the time in these meetings needling Thorin’s temper, trying to discover whether the madness had simply found a different way of presenting itself. Thranduil had felt hopeful when he saw the genuine emotions play across Thorin’s face when he witnessed the events surrounding Dwalin and the Stones – it gave Thranduil hope that the Dwarf he had come to know during the Dwarrow’s stay in his Realm was not smothered under this quiet and almost listless King. Erebor would need strength in coming years, strength and courage and fortitude. Thorin Oakenshield had possessed all of those qualities – mired in misplaced anger and a lot of loathing as it had been, it had still been clear that his people thought him a leader worth following, his kin thought him worth loving and even if Rhonith was the first to admit that she was biased towards liking him from the start, Thranduil had to admit that he too had liked the Dwarf. Thorin could be acerbic and temperamental, but he did not have Thrór’s cruelty, nor did he languish beneath Thraín’s long-trained ability to blend in with the background to escape Thrór’s notice. In many ways, Thranduil thought, Smaug’s coming and the pyrrhic victory at Azanulbizar, had given Durin’s Folk a leader who would be able to lift the burdens of the coming years… if he could get past being afraid to show his temper for fear of the madness that had plagued him. Thranduil had considered getting an Elven healer to examine Thorin’s mind, but he doubted the King under the Mountain would agree to such measures…. _Nor would he probably trust the result_ , Thranduil smirked wryly.

 

* * *

 

Fíli sat next to Thorin, hoping beyond hope that the Elvenking would cease his endless tormenting of his Uncle – if only to spare Fíli the headache he could already feel blooming. The smirk that seemed affixed to Thranduil’s otherwise expressionless face did not bode well for Fíli’s hopes. It had actually been Kíli – surprisingly insightful, considering he skipped most of these meetings – who had clued him in that Thranduil was testing Uncle. Understanding the Elf’s motives did not make the spectacle less annoying, Fíli thought sadly, surreptitiously rubbing his temples.

“Yes, Rhonith is fully awake, though still weak,” Thranduil said quietly, replying to a question of Bard’s that Fíli had missed in his morose considerations. The news made Fíli smile. Kíli had been moping around – less than before he had admitted the thing with Ori, but still moping – and Fíli looked forward to seeing his brother smile some more. “I will bring her your good wishes.” Thranduil nodded at Sigrid.

“Kíli and I will go visit Aunt Geira later,” Fíli heard himself say, blushing lightly when he found himself caught in Thranduil’s ice-blue stare. The Elvenking contemplated the oldest Prince under the Mountain silently as Fíli tried not to squirm in his seat or look away from those blue eyes. Thranduil nodded.

“I am sure your Aunt would appreciate the company,” he said, making Fíli feel like he had passed some sort of test.

The meeting continued in its usual pattern and Fíli’s head slowly began to pound.

 

 

* * *

 

That evening, Fíli made good on his word, dragging Kíli away from staring dreamily into thin air and making their way to the bedroom Geira was staying in.

 

* * *

 

His fingers held the knife with utter surety. No cut was made, no sliver of wood pared away without his absolute control. It was mesmerizing to see such rough hands create such fine objects. Careful, deliberate, the blade went into the wood at an angle, carved away what its master did not find pleasing and left behind smoothness that suddenly became a feathered bird’s body or the delicate petals of a dew-dotted bloom. The Dwarf was the most silent of the bunch, the one who did not speak in words the others understood, a long-lost dialect of their ancient language; so ancient that Bifur was the only one who spoke it these days.

Legolas thought it must be lonely, but he did not dare comment to that effect. Much like Erfaron, his mute hunter, Bifur made his disadvantage work for him; Legolas had seen the way those hands would flutter, making their owner understood by those of his kin who shared the language. It was not so different from his own use of Guard-sign, in fact, though it seemed more elaborate. The Dwarf had promised – with his stuttering apprentice as an intermediary – that he would teach the Elven prince the art of carving figurines from wood. Legolas found it difficult to move the small blade he had been given, to make the precise moves required to not cut off too much. Bifur’s first lesson had been a long hour of the danger of ‘too much’. Legolas had seen wondrous birds take shape between his hands, only to end up missing a wing because Bifur deliberately cut off ‘too much’ in demonstration. He had felt surprisingly sad as he watched the one-winged bird consigned to the fire that kept Rhonith’s room toasty.

Last night, having arrived after evening meal, Bifur attempted to teach Legolas how to _see_ the piece of wood. He was surprisingly skilled at drawing, the Elf found, staring at the fish Bifur had drawn, a natural knot in the wood becoming an eye, the resultant curves making for swift scales along the body. Saying something that his gestures made mean “making many will teach” in Legolas’ mind, Bifur pointed to his eyes, to the wood, and the drawing, and Legolas could only watch in stupefaction as the fish took shape exactly as Bifur had drawn it.

Tonight, he was showing off the techniques that made the wings of his birds move with the crank of a handle, but Legolas knew that was beyond him. From the bed, Rhonith was smiling, casually interjecting questions in words Legolas did not understand but which made Bifur light up, excited babble spilling from his lips. In a way, it was oddly soothing. She had not yet asked him why he had taken up toy-carving, and it felt like his own little secret even though she was watching him try to shape a small thrush from his block of apple-wood. He had managed to get one side almost perfect when the door swung open, admitting Fíli and Kíli in high spirits.

 

* * *

 

“ ** _Your elf is improving_** ,” Bifur remarked, when he entered Geira’s bedchamber. In truth it was a test, wondering if she still understood his words.

“ ** _He is_** ,” she smiled, “ ** _my thanks for giving him something to keep his mind occupied, Bifur… I appreciate your time and effort… As does Legolas._** ” Geira laughed, finishing up the thin soup Legolas had brought her for dinner.

“ ** _You have not lost this tongue_** ,” he remarked, wonderingly. When she smiled at him, the words spilling clearly from her mouth, Bifur almost wanted to hug her. He restrained himself, however, simply bowing in her direction before turning back to the Elf whose bumbling attempts at woodcarving were showing remarkably steady improvement.

“ ** _I remember much that was once lost to me, and more than I realized I would, even as I slept in the Stone. It makes me both sorrowful and angry_** ,” she said bitterly, and Bifur could only sympathise, remembering how he had felt after his injury and his choice to live resulted in him losing the ability to communicate with his family. He had heard that something similar had happened to her, speaking a different form of Elvish to those around her. “ ** _thinking of how much I had lost over the years, how many memories were once little more than a blur._** ” Conversation shifted back to more innocuous topics, while Bifur’s hands produced a stunning little bird with movable wings and Legolas carefully carved out a wing from his own piece of wood. The Cantor demonstrated all the tiny moving parts that made his bird ‘fly’, though they both knew that the Elf was not up to such delicate maneuvers with his blade yet.

 

* * *

 

“Auntie!” Kíli shouted, hobbling happily towards the bed where he sat down heavily on the edge, tossing the hated crutches away.

“Bulsalus,” she smiled, making Kíli beam back. “I find you in better spirits today than last we spoke, I see.” Rhonith winked at the younger prince who nodded, looking around the room with a soft smile on his face. “Fíli, take a seat,” she offered, patting the bed; there were no other chairs in the room. Fíli smiled back, taking up space in the corner.

“You are well, Geira?” he asked, while Kíli began studying the array of figures that littered the small bedside table.

“I am, Fíli,” she smiled, “and your face? May I see it?” Rhonith felt herself filled with curiosity; Legolas had dutifully reported on the stat of the company once he woke from his slumber, but it was not the same as seeing the results of her actions for herself. Fíli nodded, though he looked a little apprehensive as he removed the patch that covered his eye from brow to cheekbone.

“It has healed well,” he admitted, though his words wavering slightly, as though he was trying to be brave about the injury.

“Better than I expected when I bound it at Ravenhill for sure,” Rhonith admitted, tracing the newly healed skin with a gentle fingertip. “I am sorry I could not save your eye.” When Fíli gripped her hand, squeezing tightly, Rhonith nodded, hearing the gratitude he did not utter. Fíli might as easily have died, if she had not come for him, had not tried to protect him from exposure, ensuring that no enemies found him while he remained unconscious. Rhonith squeezed back.

Kíli, deciding that the mood was far too somber, began a long and convoluted explanation of the mechanics behind the new leg Master Fari had promised him – Legolas was lost almost instantly, but he just allowed the Dwarf’s words to wash over him as he continued to carve the small bird figurine. Every now and again, Bifur would look up and mutter something he was pretty sure was meant to be encouragement – it sounded a bit cross, but Rhonith had chuckled the first time he said it, making the Cantor beam at her.

The Princes did not stay long, needing their own rest, and left quietly when it became clear that Rhonith had fallen asleep at some point during Kíli’s monologue.

 

* * *

 

“Brother,” Balin said, when Dwalin made his way into their shared house, their long-lost home. “Are you… well?”

“Better than I have been in months, brother,” Dwalin replied, a smile on his face. Balin’s face crumbled slowly, scaring the younger Dwarf until the old white-haired advisor was weeping.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he kept muttering. With a harsh curse, Dwalin swept his brother into a hug, knocking his forehead against Balin’s like they always did when they met after any absence.

“Do not blame yourself, brother,” he mumbled against white hair, as the two siblings clutched each other. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Balin heard the words, but he failed to believe them, fearing that Thorin’s accusation had been more accurate. He had been the one to push, even if his intentions had been good, and Balin did not think he could have lived with himself if he had caused his brother to be hurt. Part of the blame, obviously, lay with Dwalin himself, Balin was not too blind to see, and Thorin was hardly innocent, but he still felt as though he had failed to protect his baby brother; the last thing he had promised their adad he would.

Neither of them let go of the other for a long time.

 

* * *

 

Dwalin found Thorin in his bedchamber, carrying a bundle of his clothes liberated from the house he had been sharing with Balin. The hour had grown very late by the time he had left Balin, tucked into bed like an exhausted dwarfling, but Dwalin had not wished to sleep alone.

“Where have you been?” Thorin asked drowsily, already in bed. He had attempted to stay up and read, but had to give it up when his eyes kept slipping closed.

“Balin’s,” Dwalin replied around a massive yawn, undressing expediently. Thorin nodded. What he had said during the interminable hours of waiting for Dwalin to wake up was true: one day, he would forgive Balin the role he had played, but not yet. It did not mean he wanted to punish his One for seeking the company of his brother, knowing that the two probably had more than a lot to discuss. Speaking of discussions.

“When do you want to get married?” Thorin asked, blurting out the question. Dwalin froze. “Forget I asked,” Thorin mumbled, when he had received no reply for what felt like eternity.

“Thorin…” Dwalin muttered, stunned.

“Hmm?” the King replied, having given up on the topic and started back on the road to sleep.

“Do you mean it?” The question made him sit up, however, his blue eyes boring into Dwalin’s.

“Do you truly think me so fickle? Believe that I still do not know my own mind?” he whispered, suddenly scared that Dwalin had not truly accepted what he had asked two nights ago. Dwalin scowled, pulling at Thorin’s chin until he could press a gentle kiss to his lips.

“That is not what I meant, Thorin,” he rumbled, pushing Thorin back down and following him with kisses. “But it is the first time we have spoken of ‘when’ not ‘if we ever take back Erebor’,” Dwalin admitted, oddly vulnerable. Thorin wrapped his arms around him, looking up at Dwalin with a cheeky grin.

“Well, in case you missed it, madtûn,” he chuckled, pressing a kiss to the tip of Dwalin’s nose, “we HAVE taken back Erebor.”

Laughter rung through the bedchamber, cut off by the sound of kisses.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Crown of Winter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11769492)


	57. Practise and Procrastination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Practise ranges, Pools, and Promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if you felt confused by the subscription notices today, Ao3 was being weird and added the same chapter twice o.O

Kíli had taken it upon himself to make sure the Elf didn’t spend _all_ his time sitting by the bed of his aunt. He had asked Legolas to help him practice his archery now that his balance had shifted. Though Master Fari had promised him a ‘new and improved’ fake leg, he had also provided Kíli with a standard leg. Óin had not yet cleared him for actually trying it out, of course, but the healer had simply sighed in exasperation and given in to the puppy eyes Kíli had perfected as a dwarfling. With Óin’s ‘permission’ thus obtained, Kíli dragged the elf down to the archery ranges on the training grounds where Thorin and Dwalin had once learned weaponry from Master Verrún.

“Looking good, Kíli,” Dwalin remarked, passing by on his way to the Front Gate to meet with a scouting group. Kíli beamed at him. It was true that his archery shouldn’t suffer much – it would have been worse for him to have lost an arm, for example – but he would need practice to regain accuracy and balance. To that end, Dáin had been quite helpful, locating something that looked like a bowl with a flat plate on top of it, though made of solid wood. Kíli was meant to stand on it, balancing the plate to remain horizontal as the rounded bottom tilted with each move he made. He wasn’t quite sure what the plate thing was meant to teach him, but it was quite fun, so he did it anyway.

“Legolas says I’ll be just as accurate in no time. When I get my new leg, I’ll be golden.” Beside him, Legolas smiled at his obvious excitement. He couldn’t imagine losing a limb, but Kíli was surprisingly happy in the face of his difficulties. He seemed to suffer no ill-effects from the poison either, which was remarkably lucky – Legolas didn’t think the Dwarrow realised just _how_ lucky they truly had been that Rhonith had been carrying miruvor when she bumped into Bilbo. Legolas had silently decided not to say anything about it. Without the added potency of the miruvor, Thranduil had told him, the young prince would likely not have been able to leave his bed for a month or more yet, his body too weak to move if he had survived at all. Legolas could not remember seeing such fear on his Adar’s face as he had worn when he spoke of the poison that had been left to fester in the Master’s body. The thought that the Death Eater – Legolas had caught sight of the Master of Laketown’s body before it was burned and seen the evidence of the untreated poison’s ravages – had been used against his own people before made him shudder. While Thranduil was no healer, he was quite experienced with poisoned wounds and Legolas saw no reason to doubt him.

“One more shot,” Legolas commanded, shaking off his morbid thoughts and giving Kíli an encouraging smile.

 

* * *

 

Bofur was keeping himself busy, rather than think of the way Mister Baggins had rejected their offer of kinship. He felt hurt by the hobbit’s actions, felt like his staunch refusal was an expression of the fact that he had not forgiven them for their actions during Thorin’s gold-sickness. Bofur had – against Óin’s advice, and without informing his brother or cousin – gone down to the southern mines, where some of Dáin’s soldiers were working, testing the tunnels that had not been blocked by rubble, trying to determine whether the southern mine would be workable through winter. The North Mines had been blocked off – Thorin had forbidden anyone from going there, with good reason, after the first surveyor that had gone down had told them that the collapse was too unstable to work for the inexperienced-with-mining soldiers that made up Dáin’s forces. Bofur had a wealth of mining experience, of course, under terrible conditions, and he could probably have surveyed the north mines on his own… if he had not been hampered by his wounded foot and the stick he used to keep his balance while his foot was in its brace. He wasn’t quite morose enough to give it a try, either, and thus he found himself in the depth of the southern mines, chatting with the crews there and regaining some of his customary joviality.

 

* * *

 

 

Fíli visited Óin in the morning, hoping to get the healer’s word that he was allowed back in the practise rings without his walking stick. His leg felt better – the random twinges of pain had abated almost entirely and he could rest his weight on it without crumbling to the ground in agony. He’d had broken bones before, though never a thigh bone and as he sat in Óin’s surgery – set up with supplies from the Iron Hills, but otherwise just like the one he had inhabited in Ered Luin – Fíli sent a grateful thought to Geira.

“You were one of the lucky ones, Fíli,” Óin said, watching Fíli walk, testing the limb beneath him without stumbling. “If your leg had not been set as quickly as it was… it was a clean break, and you should have no trouble down the years,” the experienced healer grumbled. Óin was quite happy that his services had barely been needed – if Geira had not been there, they would have needed to re-break Fíli’s leg, most likely, even if the break hadn’t been complicated. “I want you to use the stick for another two days before you’re allowed back in the rings,” Óin finished his verdict. Looking at Fíli’s mulish expression, he continued blithely, “and I’ll be making reports to both Dwalin and Thorin, lad, so don’t try to cheat!” With a groan, Fíli pulled his clothes back on, making his way out of the surgery. While he knew that Óin was right in admonishing him – he, Thorin, and Dwalin shared an unfortunate tendency to attempt to run before they could walk when it came to healing injuries, Fíli knew – it still annoyed him.

 

Making his way down to the rings, Fíli amused himself for a while by watching Kíli getting trounced at archery by Legolas, his younger brother attempting to keep balanced on one leg while maintaining a steady aim. Fíli was aware that it was harder than it looked, but he still felt his mood lift at the sight of Kíli clowning around; the laugh on his brother’s face had been missing for too long.

“He’s doing well,” he said, quietly, refraining from laughing at the way Ori jumped when he spoke. The Scribe had been leaning against a pillar, not quite visible from the rings, but with a good view.

“Prince Fíli!” Ori squeaked. Fíli frowned at him.

“Honestly, Ori, you don’t have to stop calling me Fíli, just because we’ve reclaimed Erebor. We’re going to be brothers soon enough, after all,” Fíli remarked prosaically, watching the blush spread across Ori’s face. _So, Kíli had not spoken to Ori,_ Fíli thought, hiding his wince. Hopefully, Ori wouldn’t tell Kíli he’d blurted it out like that.

“You…” Ori sighed. “Am I that transparent?” Fíli refrained from grinning at his close escape.

“Nah, but I know you, Ori,” Fíli winked. “And above that, I am observant enough to only need one eye,” he joked. Ori chuckled lightly. Turning around to face the scribe, Fíli let himself channel Uncle Thorin’s most threatening gaze. Ori fidgeted under his stare. “Speaking of brothers; if you ever hurt him, Ori, I will simply be first in line to exact vengeance, you hear?” Fíli wasn’t really surprised to see Ori’s spine straighten, the well-concealed core of steel in the dwarf before him rising to the fore. Ori nodded. Fíli returned the gesture, an accord struck between equals.

“What did Óin say, Fíli?” Dwalin asked, breaking the connection between the two younger dwarrow. Fíli shrugged.

“Another two days of feeling like a cripple,” he said flippantly, giving his stick an acidic stare. Dwalin cuffed the back of his head.

“Best not say such things in front of your brother,” he admonished with a growl. Fíli instantly felt guilty. He had little grounds to complain, his only true injury his lack of depth perception, which he knew he could train to work around.

“Sorry, Uncle,” he sighed, rubbing his head. Dwalin ruffled his hair, jumping out of range of Fíli’s surprisingly well-aimed return punch with a booming laugh. Fíli scowled, turning his attention away from Kíli’s antics to sort his hair. When Dwalin returned, his large hands pushing Fíli’s away from their task to take over, the Heir of Erebor sighed. Dwalin was back to normal, it seemed. Fíli had learned to braid from Amadel, but it was Dwalin who had the true mastery of the skill in their little family, even if he had threatened both Fíli and Kíli with dismemberment if they ever revealed that Dwalin was the one who did all their hair before important official functions. On second thought, that threat was no longer as funny.

“Have you found the hot-springs yet, Fíli?” Dwalin rumbled, which Fíli took as an admonishment that his hair could do with a wash. “Some of Dáin’s more nervy soldiers have made a rope bridge across to the hallways leading to the springs.”

“We have hot-springs?” Fíli asked, amazement washing away his pique. He wondered why no one had mentioned it before now, but thinking back on their time alone in Erebor, he wasn’t sure anyone but himself, Bilbo and possibly Nori had bothered to wash their hair beyond what was possible with a pitcher and a basin. Uncle Thorin certainly hadn’t, and Fíli was struck by absentmindedly wondering how he had managed to clean his long locks with only one arm when Dwalin hadn’t been around to help him. He quickly banished the though, even though it might have been quite funny to watch.

“Aye.” Dwalin said brusquely, finished untangling Fíli’s braids. “I’ll show you boys after lunch, I’m sure Kíli could do with a soak too after his exertions.”

“I could do what?” Kíli said, ambling up to them on his crutches. He had magnanimously allowed Legolas to carry his bow and quiver. Noticing Ori, he smiled widely, only to blush when Ori returned the smile with a shy look of his own.

“Could do with a bath, you wee rascal,” Dwalin rumbled. Kíli’s blush intensified, glaring at the warrior who shrugged. “I promised Fíli I’d take you to the hot-springs after lunch.”

“We have hot-springs in our Halls,” Legolas said, sounding wistful. “A good place to soak after a day of training.”

“Come along,” Fíli heard himself offering, unprepared for the smile the elf bestowed on him in return.

“ _Ci fêl, Fíli go-Durin_ ,” he replied with a light bow. “I shall take lunch to Rhonith and meet you afterwards?”

With a nod, the plans were finalized.

 

* * *

 

 

Meetings had been cancelled for the day as Balin and some of the new members of the ‘Council of Dale’ worked on writing up the preliminary results for the agreement regarding the rebuilding of Dale. Thranduil had disappeared somewhere with the elf he had introduced as his own scribe, Rusgon, presumably to go over reports of his own Realm’s affairs. Thorin found himself with nothing but paperwork to do, though he couldn’t concentrate on reading the words, Fíli’s promise from the day before ringing in his ears. When Thorin finally gathered up the courage to visit the elleth his amad had named sister, he was mostly motivated by guilt. Curiosity was another side to the coin; having learned her true connection to him only when they had already said goodbye, Thorin wanted answers. Entering the room, he didn’t realise that his heavy thread on the green stone made him sound furious.

“Why did you save me on the Carrock?” he barked, uncomfortable owing a debt he had not known about until Thranduil revealed it. In her bed, looking much better, Geira bristled.

“Were you truly so desperate to die, Thorin Oakenshield? If I had not been there, if I had not mended your torn lung, made your blood recede from your chest, you would have died there, joining your kin in the Halls and leaving your Company leaderless, your friends to fend for themselves, your nephews to bury you… WAS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED?” Though her throat was still too dry for shouting, Geira made a credible attempt. Thorin winced. Outside the room, the returning Legolas halted in his tracks, leaning against the wall by the perpetually propped open door.

 

When she fell silent, Thorin sank into the chair by her bed, for once vacated by the Princeling whose skills at carving were apparently growing in leaps and bounds; the figures he spotted in the first row on the bedside table were a far cry from the helplessness of the earlier attempts.

“I did not mean it like that,” he said, sheepishly. “I wanted to thank you for doing so, but I also wanted to know _what_ you did. Thranduil said it affected me after the Battle of the Five Armies.”

“Is that what they’re calling it now?” Geira said, momentarily distracted, before her eyes narrowed in the direction of the Dwarf-King once more. “I have loved many Dwarrow in my life, Thorin; I have called them brother, cousin, kin…” Geira began, and before her eye she saw their faces once again, each one rendered in perfect detail in her memory. “And yet, I have loved only once, as an amad would, loved the dwarf who was my _son_. He was the child I shall never bear, the child of my heart. _My_ _Thorin_ … My little wolf. Do you know what it is to lose your child, Thorin? Can you even imagine it?” she bit, skewering him with her Durin-blue eyes.

Thorin had no time to reply, even if he had been able to think of an adequate retort. In his mind’s eye, he watched again as Fíli had been slung from the top of Ravenhill Tower, felt the agony and fury well up in his breast, the sheer despair and rage that felt even worse than losing Frerin at Azanulbizar. He also remembered the utter relief he’d felt upon waking in the tent and seeing his nephew safe… Thorin thought he might understand what she meant.

“Watching as your son grows old before your eyes, while you change not at all?” Geira continued, old grief colouring her voice. “Watch him sicken, watch his strength wither, his body turn thin and frail as you can do naught but watch and await the coming of death?” She felt like she could almost reach for him, stroke the cheek of the first Dwarf in their line called Thorin, tickle the dwarfling he had been, console the orphan he became, and comfort the King who longed for peace in his home. Once more, she saw the kind smile of Eirný, the bitterness that her fate grew in the beautiful Embla and counted the tears she had shed at their funerals. “You wish to thank me for your life?” she asked, almost harshly. “Thank _him_.” Looking at this Thorin, whose eyes were the exact same shade as her own Thorin’s, Geira felt the words spill from her lips without conscious command. “In that moment atop the Carrock, I did not see you, Thorin, son of Frís, I saw no one but him, _my son,_ and he was _dying_ …” swallowing hard, banishing the threatening tears, Geira continued hoarsely, “but this time I could stop it, I could force his body - _yours_ \- to keep going. _This_ time, I could _win…_ and I did.” She felt vicious satisfaction at the thought, as though she had been clever and not just lucky not to have overextended herself on Thorin’s behalf. “I did too much, more than I should have,” Geira admitted, which made her audience of one gape, silently demanding an explanation, “I weakened myself with the terror and the love and the sheer bloody-mindedness it took to heal you. I forced healing upon you, in a manner I should not have used, I battered your physical resistances until you gave way under the onslaught, and I used your own memories against you to wedge my fëa into the cracks in your willpower. Had Mithrandir not stopped me, I should have drained myself trying to mend you for love of the dwarf whose face you carry. I did it for my son... for I miss him no less today than I did on the day he drew his final breath.”

“Do I really look that much like him?” Thorin couldn’t help but wonder. He had seen portraits and statues of the Kings of old, and though he had seen a certain resemblance, he had not thought himself a true copy of his ancestor.

“Oh, your nose is a little thinner and your skin slightly darker, you’re a little taller and my Thorin never cut his beard short,” Geira waved his question away impatiently. “I’m trying to explain how none of it mattered in that moment when I could feel you slipping away.” Thorin bowed his head, not at all sure how he felt about the whole thing. Geira’s soft fingers landed lightly on the back of his hand, making him look up to catch a gentle smile on her face. “It is true there is much of my Thorin in you, but you are not him, you are _you_ , and the two of you are so different to me that at times I am still jarred when I see you and notice the resemblance all over again.”

“Thank you,” Thorin said, smiling at her. Geira squeezed his hand.

“You are welcome, Thorin, and I am pleased to see you be you once more; the dwarf I have come to know staring back at me through your eyes again. It pleases me more than you may ever understand to see you so recovered,” she whispered. Thorin felt a little speechless, not sure how he had earned so much fondness from her in their admittedly short acquaintance.

“Why did you save Dwalin then?” The question had left his mouth before he’d even considered whether he wanted to hear the answer, but there was no taking it back. Thorin scowled, angry with himself. He did not like the thought of owing his own life to anyone, but knowing that he owed her _Dwalin’s_ … Only sheer stubbornness kept him from flinching at the image that had haunted him more than once, remembering the solemn burial ceremonies he had attended in Erebor as Thrór’s grandson. To hear the final thud as the lid of Dwalin’s tomb was placed down… Thorin thought he would have fallen apart.

“But how could I not?” Geira asked, confused. “You are his face, yes, and for that alone I could not help but be fond of you, even if you were not my sister’s son. I felt your love for him suffusing your entire being, Thorin…” She smiled. Thorin blushed. “I tried to help those who sought the aid of the Stones, but Dwalin… he did not listen, did not wish to speak. He thought I did not hear him, all those times he came to the stones, seeking solace. He believed me asleep when I did not answer to his presence, but I heard him, heard him try to find comfort from the memory of his amad and I learned his heart. His heart is… I grew to love his heart… a precious heart…” Geira trailed off, but Thorin thought he understood what she meant: Who knew better than him how lovely Dwalin’s heart truly was? “How could I not help him, when he cried for help with no one but me to answer?”

Legolas chose that moment to enter, feeling that he’d overheard more than enough about his friend’s relationship with Thorin Oakenshield, and also slightly convinced that Thorin ought to be speaking with his own love rather than Legolas’.

“Hello,” he greeted, affecting a mien that didn’t reveal his eavesdropping. Rhonith smiled tiredly at him, but it was a genuinely happy-to-see-you smile, which warmed his heart. Stroking his fingers across her ear, he placed down the small tray of offerings from Maeassel’s kitchen. With a flourish, he pulled away the napkin covering and revealed that Rhonith was no longer limited to broth, a collection of bread and even a small apple tart sitting beside the bowl.

“Real food!” she exclaimed, making Thorin laugh. Legolas simply smiled, happy to see her energy return. She was still too thin, but she had lost the emaciated look, and her eyes stayed open for longer before tiredness claimed her once more.

“No doubt about your Dwarven stomach, Auntie,” Thorin teased, “I’ve heard those words from sickbeds often enough.” Rhonith huffed haughtily in return.

“I’ll have you know, Thorin Uzbad,” she said, picking up a piece of bread and chucking it at him, “that I am used to far heartier fare in a Dwarf’s Halls, and I resent being made to feel like an invalid when I am not sick.” She held the expression long enough for Legolas to feel worried that Thorin had actually offended her, but then they both erupted into laughter. He felt a little lost.

“Well, Yule is coming up, I’m sure Dáin will be able to manage a proper stout ale stew,” Thorin offered.

“See that he does, nephew,” Rhonith wagged a finger in Thorin’s direction. “Your amad managed to feed me meals fit for the King’s table even when I stayed here in secret and she was almost ready to give birth… I’d hate for you to fall short of her expectations in hospitality.” Again, Thorin simply laughed.

“A story for another day, perhaps,” he said, getting to his feet, “I am expected in the council chambers shortly,” he sighed, feeling sorely put-upon by the utter lack of progress they were making. “You know, this is the sort of thing you offered to help me with in Beorn’s gardens.”

“As soon as I am capable, Thorin,” she replied, the promise clear. “Now, go wrangle a proper Yule-feast from Dáin’s storehouses, and I shall set all my will to the task of regaining my strength. Legolas will keep me company.” Patting Legolas’ knee with one hand, she shooed Thorin out the door with the other. Fondly shaking his black head, the Dwarf-King left.

“Eat your food,” Legolas said quietly, “I don’t want a scolding from Maeassel if I bring back a half-full tray,” he mock-scolded, easing his words with a smile. When Rhonith nodded and began applying herself to the task of sustenance, he picked up the small knife Bifur had given him and returned to working on the small carving of an Elf he was attempting.

“You’re getting better,” Rhonith remarked lightly, but Legolas could hear a soft note of pride in the words. “What made you start to carve?”

“Boredom,” he fibbed, smiling cheekily at her. “You were being singularly uninteresting company, I had to do something!”

Laughing, Rhonith poked his arm, “Really?” she asked drily. “I would have thought you’d rather have gone out hunting.” Legolas did not know what to say; normally he would have, but normally he wouldn’t have been so utterly terrified of losing her forever either. Sitting frozen in his chair, he simply stared at his hands, the small nick he’d given himself the day before almost healed. Rhonith’s pale fingers entered his field of vision, her hand landing on his forearm, the gentle squeeze releasing the tension in the limb. “Thank you for sitting with me,” she whispered. Legolas did not look up, afraid to show his own face almost as much as he feared what he might see in hers. “Here and in the Stones,” Rhonith continued quietly. Legolas nodded woodenly. The hand retreated, and he immediately wished for the return of its calming warmth. Mastering his own face, Legolas lifted his head, giving her a small smile. Rhonith yawned lightly. Within minutes, she was asleep again. For a long time, the only sound in the room was the quiet _snick_ of the blade biting into the wood.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo had been looking for Bofur since 1st breakfast, feeling guilty about what Dori’s words had finally made him realise he had done by steadfastly denying what the three ur’s had offered. In the kitchen, he had found Maeassel, but the kindly elleth could only tell him to check the drafting tables for Bombur, where he was working with the engineers who would do the calculations and help him design the layout for the new Lower Commons and the Grand Marketplace. Munching on a warm currant bun for his second breakfast – Lady Maeassel had earned herself a large place in Bilbo’s heart by being willing to provide with at least five meals a day – Bilbo made his way to the Grand Marketplace where he found Bombur frowning at complicated plans that meant little to Bilbo at first glance. Instead, he busied himself staring at the vast space the Dwarrow had cleared. He had not really been able to picture the sheer vastness of Erebor’s Halls, even in those early days before all the members of the Company seemed satisfied – or at least too scared of Thorin’s increasingly volatile demands to do anything else – with searching the Treasury. Of course, the Treasury had been vast in itself – Bilbo had walked the length of one of the slightly curving walls one day as he thought about the Arkenstone and come to the conclusion that the Treasury was at least three quarters of a mile across – but it was far below them, and Erebor came to a _point_ , Yavannah’s flowers! Balin had tried to describe it to him as it had been in Balin’s youth, but his words had done no justice to the sheer scale of the rebuilding project undertaken by Bombur. It made no sense to him that the large marketplace should seem even larger than the Treasury now that it was almost cleared. many of the surrounding buildings had been knocked down as Smaug passed through his domain and the area had been mostly rubble when Balin had tried to make Bilbo and Kíli imagine the bright glitter of gold, the loud voices of merchants and patrons, the dark jewel-toned gowns and dresses of the Dwarrow of Erebor.

“Mister Baggins!” Bombur exclaimed, when he noticed the Hobbit standing a bit forlornly, staring with clear awe at the work they had already done, half a currant bun forgotten in his hand. “Welcome to the Minrîn!”

“Bombur!” Bilbo exclaimed, slightly lost, but pleased that the rotund dwarf did not seem to hold his rejection against him. Bombur clapped a hand on his shoulder, dragging him over to the drafting table. “This is Lord Bilbo Dragonriddler, son of Bungo,” he introduced. Bilbo flushed. Bombur pointed to the people around him. “These are some of Dáin’s engineers Master Fari,” Bilbo thought he recognised the name, but he couldn’t place the brown-haired dwarf, who gave him a friendly smile before returning his dark eyes to the calculations in front of him. “This is Master Algerd, and this fine fellow is a distant cousin of Balin and Dwalin, Master Lofti, one of the few stonemasons Dáin brought along.” Bilbo nodded to each of them, studying the cousin keenly. He didn’t see much resemblance, however, though Lofti had the same air of avuncular kindness about him as Balin seemed to exude.

“Have you seen Bofur?” Bilbo asked, distantly aware that he was being rude, but hardly caring.

“Can’t say that I have,” Bombur replied thoughtfully. “Lofti? Seen Bofur today? I thought he was working with one of your rubble crews.”

“Nay,” Lofti answered, stabbing his thick finger at the plans before him. “This archway won’t support the upper levels,” he said. Master Algerd frowned, pulling the plans back to his side of the table and nodding thoughtfully. “Bofur didn’t show up with Lord Dori,” Lofti continued, scratching his beard in thought. “Might be he’s gone to the healers? His foot’s nearly better, no?”

“Shouldn’t be for another week,” Bombur objected, now looking a little worried. “I’m going to help Bilbo search, I’ll return after the fourteenth mirror shines.” With that cryptic message – apparently making perfect sense to the surrounding dwarrow, though Bilbo felt left in the dark, Bombur marched off with a hurried air. Bilbo sped after him, beginning to feel worried that no one apparently knew where to find Bofur.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“I will be leaving you shortly,” Legolas said, when Rhonith woke from her nap. “Dwalin has promised to show myself and the young Princes to the hot-springs, to get a proper bath.” He didn’t expect the smile on her face to widen into a mischievous grin.

“Perhaps I shall see you there,” Rhonith taunted.

“You can’t leave your bed!” Legolas exclaimed. At that moment, a knock on the doorframe presaged the entrance of Nori and Dori.

“Perhaps not, but if our sister desires a proper bath, a proper bath she will get,” the Spymaster replied evenly.

“There should be clean clothes in the wardrobe over there that will fit me,” Rhonith pointed across the room. Dori laughed.

“We didn’t even think to check in here for things for you to wear!” she said, feeling foolish.

“Honestly, I had expected to find my own clothes from Mirkwood in my room,” Rhonith replied, raising an eloquent eyebrow in Legolas’ direction. Legolas shrugged.

“I think your things were taken back along with Adar’s tent…” he admitted sheepishly, “Things were a bit chaotic that day, you may recall.”

Rhonith’s laughter was loud and joyous; a sound that did funny things to his heart and put an answering smile in his eyes. Nori had picked the lock on the indicated wardrobe, holding up a dark green jewel encrusted gown sewn with thousands of sparkling emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds.

“Mahal’s Beard,” Dori breathed, staring at the splendid masterpiece.

“Pretty, isn’t it? It took Vrís ages to stitch the embroidery, but I did the gemstones. Frís designed the pattern.” Rhonith smiled.

“Do you know how much that dress would be worth?” Nori asked, almost stunned. They had seen many extravagant riches in the Treasury, but somehow it was different to see something someone he _knew_ would have worn.

“I wore it to my sister’s wedding,” Rhonith said, “if you think that dress is something, you should have seen the gown Frís wore.”

“You looked like a cool forest stream, beautiful like a morning in spring,” Legolas remembered, a soft smile stealing across his face. Dori was touching the heavy fabric reverently. “Lothig, however, shone like the sun,” he chuckled. Rhonith nodded.

“Gold, garnets and topazes,” she replied, in answer to Dori’s questioning look. “Try the other wardrobe, nadad,” Rhonith called, as Dori carefully hung the emerald dress back in the wardrobe. “Frís must have redecorated in here since Thorin was born. That was the last time I stayed in the Mountain long enough to use this room.” With a shrug, Rhonith allowed Dori to pull her into a sitting position, holding on to the strong dwarf as she carefully set her feet on the cool stone floor. Frowning at the wasted look of her legs, Rhonith got to her feet slowly. She took a few faltering steps, still holding Dori’s hands, grimacing at her impaired balance and the slight dizziness she could feel.

“I will carry you down to the springs,” Dori said, her voice brooking no disagreement. Rhonith sat back down, giving her a meek smile.

“I think that would be wise, Dori, thank you.”

“Found a shift,” Nori proclaimed, pulling a dress of thin linen from the cedar wardrobe. He handed it to Legolas, who accepted the clothing wordlessly, still a little stunned by Rhonith’s imminent plans. “If the Elf is going with you, I’ll go find something else to do for a while, **nanna’**[286],” he called, ducking out of the door.

“Let’s go then,” Dori said briskly, and before Legolas could object, the dam had swung the elleth into her arms and left the room. Staring at the shift in his hands, the elven prince shook his head before following swiftly in Dori’s footsteps.

 

* * *

“D’you think Bofur’s in touble?” Bilbo asked meekly. Bombur shrugged.

“Can’t say, Bilbo. He was plenty upset after we talked to you-”

“I wanted to apologise for that.” Bilbo interjected hurriedly. “I didn’t realise how big a thing it was to you to ask me and… I-I didn’t feel…” he petered off, not knowing how to finish his thought.

“In my experience, Hobbits don’t tend to make much of their own importance. A Hobbit who does is considered a braggart, am I right?” Bombur said, pulling Bilbo’s arm to make him stop in the deserted corridor. “My Athalrún has a touch of that, too, Bilbo, her amad – her mother – even more so. What you must understand about Dwarrow, Bilbo, is that we are not like that. We are loud, and brash, and generally, we like to make noise about important things. You are important to us, as a friend and companion, and whether you accept it or not, we ALL consider you kin. What my brother was trying to do, in his own way, was showing you that we do not only think of you as kin, we want the world to know it.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you think I didn’t like being related to you – err, your wife,” Bilbo began. Bombur smiled.

“Bofur is worried that because we did not defend you as we should have, you secretly hate us.” He held up a hand to silence Bilbo’s protest. “I know, you do not hate us, not even Thorin though he would be the one who most deserved your ire. No, Bofur is deluded, but he is afraid. You are important to him, Bilbo, important to all of us, but Bofur thinks of you as his close friend. Feeling that he had wronged you so was breaking his heart.” He paused, lowering his voice as if to impart a secret. “Bofur spent almost all night after the battle scouring the field for your corpse, fearing that he would never get to apologise to you. I have rarely seen my brother upset, but that night, and until Dori found you, he was nearly despondent.”

“He never told me that,” Bilbo whispered, his guilt mounting. Bombur put a meaty hand on his shoulder, squeezing softly.

“It would mean more than you might think if you talked to him as you used to,” Bombur sighed, “you’ve been cooped up in the Library with Ori so much, and Bofur isn’t… for all his outspokenness, my brother has a tender heart. He’d never go where he did not feel wanted.” Another sigh; sometimes, Bombur did not understand his brother at all. “I am afraid that you will have to push a little to break through the walls of Bofur’s guilty conscience.”

Bilbo nodded. The pair walked on in silence for a long stretch.

“I’d like to be your family,” Bilbo heard himself whisper. He could almost feel Bombur smiling at him, though he felt suddenly too shy to look up and see it.

“The Dwarflings will love having a Hobbit Uncle,” Bombur promised warmly. “Though don’t tell them your age… you’re a year younger than my oldest son,” he laughed. Bilbo chuckled.

“Do they grow as slowly as Dwarrow?” Bilbo asked, something he hadn’t thought of before, having been unaware of Athalrún’s Hobbit blood.

“A little faster, actually. I believed my Athalrún was past her majority when I met her, but she was only 75 when Bolbur was born,” Bilbo looked up sharply; that was younger than Kíli… Bilbo didn’t think _Kíli_ was old enough to be a parent. Bombur blushed lightly. “We’d already been married for more than a year by then!” He defended himself hotly before bursting into booming laughter. “Nay, my wife’s a wily one,” he chuckled, “though of course her amad was even younger when she had Athalrún’s older brother. With each generation, the Hobbit traits dilute in the blood, and my oldest probably won’t come of age much before their age-mates. They will hopefully live a full span of a Dwarf’s life too,” he remarked, though Bilbo could feel that was a sensitive topic. “Athalhilda is still living – my wife’s amad – and her brother Sindri. It gives me hope.” Bilbo made a sympathetic sound; he had no idea what to say, really. Parts of him were still trying to wrap his head around the idea that Dwarrow could have faunts with Hobbits – or dwarflings, he supposed. The gap in lifespans aside, they were different _races_. A voice appeared, somewhere in his memory; a tiny sentence from the story Rhonith had told at the feast they had attended in Mirkwood. _Aulë wanted to make the Hobbits true brothers and sisters of his Children._ Bilbo shivered. Suddenly, he was looking forward to meeting this Athalrún as well as Bombur’s dwarflings, more than he’d thought possible; a burning curiosity filling his heart.

 

* * *

 

The hot-springs of Erebor were really a series of caves where pools of warm water welled up from deep below. The warmest was near boiling; too hot for anyone living to bathe in, and that was the one which was funnelled through the Mountain to the kitchens and the far-off taps where those who didn’t have access to the pools would get water for washing and bathing. The pools, as Dwalin told the Princes while they waited for Legolas to appear, were the Crown’s property, though the privilege of using the public baths was allowed all comers. There were pools deeper in the system reserved for the King’s family and their guests, with water infused with different minerals making the pools shine in odd colours. Dáin’s rope bridge had restored access to the public areas, and that’s where they’d have to go, as Dwalin had no recollection of the way to reach the private bathing chambers – nor even knowledge of whether they still existed at all.

“Auntie!” Kíli shouted, being the first to catch sight of Dori and her burden. Rhonith waved.

“Hello, lads, Dwalin,” she smiled.

“Can you carry her across, Dori? It’s not steady footing,” Dwalin called, looking sceptically at the rope bridge, which was little more than a piece of rope for walking on, with ropes either side to hold on to. Dori, too, looked dubious.

“I don’t think I could throw her, either,” Dori muttered, measuring the gap with her eyes. At least 10 meters. “Could you manage to hang on to my back?” she asked Rhonith, while behind them Legolas blanched.

“I will take Rhonith!” he blurted, visions of the both of them plummeting to their deaths dancing in his head. The drop was probably no more than Fíli had survived falling at Ravenhill, but that was hardly reassuring to any of the onlookers.

“Legolas can do it,” Rhonith waved away Dori’s concerned expression. The tailor put her down slowly, keeping her hands ready to catch if the weakened elleth keeled over. She hardly had time to find her feet before Legolas had scooped her into his arms, wrapping her own around his shoulders with a light laugh. “ _Careful, glasseg, you’re unnerving the mortals,_ ” she whispered, so low only Legolas heard it, but he only held her tighter.

“You’re sure about this, Princeling?” Dwalin rumbled from the other side of the 10 meter gap. The Elves both laughed.

“It is no more trouble to me than running along the branches of Mirkwood, Master Dwalin,” Legolas said, nimbly stepping onto the rope and crossing it. From his secure hold, Rhonith laughed, leaning comfortably against his chest. As he walked, Legolas made the task look simple – and to him it was – but he still caught the relieved sighs of his audience when he stepped off the rope, barely making it move with his weight.

“Thank you, _mellon_ ,” Rhonith whispered, watching Dori cross the swinging rope carefully.

“I will wait and carry you back to your room,” Legolas said, more a command than an offer. Dori stumbled on the last step, making Legolas’ heart race with fear, his imagination spinning wildly, but Dwalin managed to catch her hand, pulling her back on solid stone. Legolas sighed in relief, his hold involuntarily tightening at the images of what might have happened if he had not been along. Rhonith patted his chest gently, but the suddenly tense elf did not relax.

“Aye,” Dwalin interjected, “that would be a good idea.” He nodded at Legolas, who returned the gesture solemnly. Rhonith did not speak, feeling slightly amused by the way her pseudo-nephew and her _friend_ interacted. “Well, then, this way.” Dwalin rumbled, pointing down the tunnel.

“The private baths are closed off?” Rhonith wondered, seemingly content to remain in Legolas’ hold. Reaching an arm out to touch the stone wall, she frowned.

“Honestly, I’ve forgotten the way,” Dwalin admitted, scratching the back of his head. Kíli laughed and Fíli smirked slightly. Rhonith laughed, the sound wrapping itself around Legolas’ heart and making him smile.

“I haven’t,” she winked, trailing her fingertips along the stone as Legolas walked. “Here,” she said, pointing to a stretch of stone, perfectly similar to the rest of the corridor. “The trigger is set low, about knee height,” she said, while the rest of them stared at the rough-hewn wall, seeing nothing that looked like anything but more of the same green marble. Fíli and Dwalin began running their fingers over the wall, looking puzzled. Rhonith sighed. “Let me down, Legolas,” she said, only stumbling slightly when he set her back on her feet. Holding on to his arm, she stretched out her bare foot, touching a point on the wall. “Look,” she said, waving towards her toes. Legolas swept her back up, disliking the way the simple gesture made her bare leg tremble.

“M’imnu Durin,” Dwalin breathed, when he saw it. On the wall, cleverly concealed in the rough crags and grooves left behind by mining picks centuries before, Rhonith’s foot had pressed against Durin’s Hammer, and when the Dwarrow allowed their eyes to wander, they found the seven stars and the anvil in the seemingly undecorated wall too.

“Press the anvil and the first star,” Rhonith said, a light yawn eating the tail-end of the sentence. Dwalin touched his hand to the star, almost reverently, while Fíli bent to press the anvil mark. The wall opened soundlessly.

* * *

 

The private pools were _epic_ , Kíli thought, splashing at Fíli and Dwalin. The water’s buoyancy meant he could move almost as if he still had two feet, and the opaque colour meant he couldn’t see the stump either. Dori and aunt Geira were in the ladies’ part – and hadn’t that been a shocker, finding out Dori was a dam? – and Kíli had been surprised at how much the Elven Prince seemed to enjoy playing in the warm water. For a while it had been Fíli and Kíli vs Dwalin and Legolas, but later it devolved into an all-out melee. The Elf might be slender compared to a Dwarf, but he was surprisingly _strong,_ Kíli found.

“Having fun, lads?” Aunt Geira called, her mithril hair streaming wetly down her shoulders. She was wearing a plain shift, which fit a lot better than the one she had been wearing before her bath.

“Yes!” Kíli called, spluttering when his lack of attention gave Dwalin the perfect opportunity to dunk him underneath the water. He could hear Geira’s laugh, tinkling in the air above the surface as he threw all his weight at Dwalin’s legs, making the warrior stumble and fall backwards into the pool with a loud bellow. Kíli came up with a triumphant roar only to swallow a mouthful of water when Legolas pushed him from behind.

“Where does the light come from?” Fíli wondered, having retreated to the low bench seat along the edge of the pool.

“Mirrors and crystals,” Geira replied, disinterested. “Can I see your leg, Kíli?” Kíli nodded, swimming back to the ledge and pulling himself up on the edge, accepting a towel from Dori and stretching his stump towards her. Kíli wasn’t a very modest Dwarf, but the towel kept his bum from the cool rock, so he smiled at Dori in thanks. “It’s healed very well,” Geira muttered to herself, running her fingers over the cut off part and watching Kíli’s face for signs of discomfort. He twitched.

“It tickles,” he admitted, when she shot him a questioning look. Her fingers stilled.

“I feel no lingering poison in this,” she mumbled, while Dori handed another towel to a dripping Legolas. “Nestor did well by you, bulsalus.” With a smile, she let go of his leg. Kíli grimaced at the stump.

“It’s still not pretty.” He scowled, looking at the bruise-purple discoloration.

“The bruises will face, bulsalus,” Geira promised, knocking her forehead against his. “And I believe the sacrifice of your foot was worth it if it bought Ori’s life… don’t you?” Kíli gaped at her, having never seen it that way, but knowing that she was right. Geira laughed, pressing a small kiss against his forehead.

“Ready to return to your room?” Legolas asked, once more dressed in supple leather and his green tunic. His pale hair was still damp, and slightly tousled. The elf had obviously forgotten to bring a comb. Kíli smirked, patting his own hair and catching Legolas’ eye over Geira’s shoulder when she turned to smile at him. Legolas did not blush, but a light glow appeared in his cheeks when he caught Kíli’s meaning.

“Yes,” Geira nodded, oblivious, and stretched her arms up, wrapping them securely around Legolas’ neck when he lifted her off the ground. “It’s nice to be clean. “Leaning her head against his shoulder with a small yawn, Geira fell asleep, her mithril hair still wet enough to soak Legolas’ sleeve as the small group made their way out of the bathing chambers.

 

* * *

 

The hour had grown late as Thorin sat on the floor of his study, staring at the wooden box that held the jewel Thrór had prized above everything else – including his family, Thorin had to admit. The Arkenstone. The gentle glow brought back memories of standing by Thrór’s throne, greeting visiting nobles and feeling very adult, but it also made him remember a grizzled old dwarf who had picked him up and held him on his knee as he took the Raven Crown from his brow and placed it on the dwarfling’s head, Thrór’s laugh rumbling through his chest when the heavy crown fell down over Thorin’s eyes. He didn’t know how long he had sat there, lost in memories, when Dwalin entered the room, bringing with him a smell Thorin had almost forgotten but which immediately reminded him of Thraín showing him how to open the door that led to their large pool caverns. Snapping his eyes up to Dwalin’s face, Thorin took in the sight of the still damp beard and the wet patch it had made on Dwalin’s green shirt.

“What are you doing, kurkaruk?” Dwalin asked.

“Thinking about Grandfather,” Thorin admitted, gesturing to the Arkenstone in its box. “It is a beautiful jewel.”

“Aye, tis,” Dwalin replied, carefully. He kept looking at Thorin’s face.

“I can’t help but think it would have been better had it never been found at all,” Thorin sighed, closing the lid. “I don’t know what to do with it. I feel…wary… of putting it back above my Throne,” he admitted, feeling sheepish.

“I don’t want you near it,” Dwalin muttered hoarsely. “Tharkûn and Bifur may have cleansed it, but…”

“But we would probably both feel better if the Arkenstone was placed elsewhere,” Thorin finished for him. The look of relief on Dwalin’s face was telling. Casting about for a less volatile topic, Thorin smirked up at his warrior. “I can see you found your way to the pools.” Dwalin’s beard was bushier than usual, uncombed, which gave him an urge to play with the soft hair.

“Brought the lads along,” Dwalin replied brusquely, but he bent and offered Thorin a sweet kiss. “And your aunt showed us how to get into the royal pools.”

“They’re not damaged?” Thorin asked, breathing a sigh of relief when Dwalin shook his head. If Geira told them the pools were safe, that was one less area he’d need to concern himself about having surveyed. Tangling his fingers in Dwalin’s bushy beard, Thorin did not let the warrior rise until they were both breathless, feeling a need for closeness from his soon-to-be husband.

“Your beard is getting long,” Dwalin said, looking at the dark hair.

“I think… the time has come to let it grow,” Thorin replied. “Do you like it?”

“Thorin with a long beard…” Dwalin stroked his own thoughtfully, staring down at Thorin who was still sitting on the floor, suddenly looking uncertain. With a booming laugh, Dwalin bent to pick him up, ignoring the yelp of surprise and smashed his mouth against Thorin’s. “I’ll love it,” he promised, moaning lightly when Thorin nipped his lower lip.

“I’ll be a proper Longbeard then, you’ll see,” Thorin preened slightly, interspersing his words with kisses. Dwalin growled, squeezing his arse. Thorin sighed into his mouth. “I want you,” he said. Dwalin raised an eyebrow. With a grin, Thorin plundered his mouth, trailing his hand down Dwalin’s spine to rub against his arse.

“Well,” Dwalin replied, smirking, “as my King desires…” with a wink, he took a step back, slowly pulling off his shirt and toeing off his boots. Unlacing his breeches, he walked past Thorin, who was rubbing a bulge in his own trousers at the show, and entered the bedroom. “Coming?” he asked, his voice floating cheekily back into the main room. Thorin grinned.

“As my Captain desires,” he promised, following Dwalin’s booming laugh to the bed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[286] sisters


	58. Games and Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil is a schemer, Thorin has a revelation, and Kíli feels the burdens of duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> o.O there are now more Kudos than chapters! *slightly excited*

# Chapter – Games and Masks

The morning had been left free of obligations for the younger Prince under the Mountain, but, in the afternoon, he would be back to assisting Dáin’s dwarrow with the task of collecting names for the dead. A large hall had been unearthed the day before, containing at least 300 skeletons, which all had to be identified. Legolas did not envy his young friend the task. Even though the dead of Erebor were reduced to skeletons, they had to move the bones carefully into small boxes, checking all beads or remaining articles of clothing for identifying markers before the box was marked with the name of its occupant, his clan, and his trade, and moved to the large cavern Thorin had designated as a collection point. It was already known as the Hall of Mourning, and Legolas had heard of more than one Dwarf among the workers finding long-lost kindred in the piles of bones.

The morning, however, was spent practising on the archery course, something Legolas enjoyed, even if the Erebor course was not as elaborate as the one in Mirkwood. There were no gently swinging targets left to dangle in the breeze, after all, and it was indoors, which meant no sudden gusts of wind to throw a shot off course.

“The bow is one of the lesser used weapons in the Dwarven arsenal,” Kíli explained, when he first brought Legolas to the range. “Many consider it un-dwarven,” he muttered, shaking his head to dispel a shadow that had appeared in his eyes. Legolas wondered what the young dwarf’s kindred thought of a prince of the Line of Durin using a bow as his main weapon, but Kíli continued blithely, before Legolas had time to ask. “Still, even with an un-dwarven weapon, we’d never neglect our training.”

“Lothig liked the bow,” Legolas said, remembering sun-dappled days in Mirkwood, trying to teach a small dwarfling how to shoot the bow he had given her for her Nameday – Dwarrow apparently did not celebrate Birthdays, like Elves, Rhonith had told him – and watching Frís’ face light up when she hit the target on her very first attempt. “I taught her myself, during summers, when she was small.” He smiled softly. He had crafted the bow himself, making Ada chuckle at him learning an entirely new skill just to please a little girl. Actually, he thought wryly, it wasn’t so different to his current desire for learning figurine carving, even if the girl in question this time was far older and lovelier.

“Aye, well, Amadel taught me, though she also insisted I learn other weapons. I prefer my bow but the sword is more useful for close-range combat.” Kíli returned the smile. Legolas nodded; he had seen the way Dwarrow fought, after all, standing in the path of the enemy and hewing them down with impunity, where he preferred flitting around, a constant blur of motion as he fired his arrows; only relying on his swords when the terrain was unsuitable for archery or he had run out of arrows.

“You’re quite good,” he remarked teasingly, “for a Dwarf.”

“OY!” Kíli exclaimed, scowling up at the smugly smirking elf. “Them’s fighting words, Legolas,” he chuckled, drawing an arrow from his quiver. Legolas smiled knowingly, throwing himself into the contest and enjoying the way Kíli had returned to smiling, rather than the glum expression on his face when he spoke of being un-dwarven.

 

The two spent the rest of the morning in amiable competition, until Kíli had to admit defeat. He was still laughing, however, when he picked up his crutches and made his way to the Food Hall for lunch. Legolas followed, chatting amicably until he detoured, picking up Rhonith’s lunch-tray from Maeassel, who gave him a fond smile. Dori brought her breakfast, while Legolas played with Kíli – he considered it a game, at least – but he had a small hope that she would be up for eating dinner with the whole Company tonight… even if he had to carry her all the way down. Actually, he amended, certain his ears were glowing, that wouldn’t be much of a hardship at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“If we are agreed on the schedule for the rebuilding of Dale, King Thorin,” Thranduil said, sipping idly at wine he had not offered to share and looking disdainfully bored, “perhaps our minds might turn to other tasks for the spring.”

“I was told that your people hold the power to restore the Desolation, to revive the lands around Erebor.” Thorin kept his temper, though it was becoming more difficult as negotiations wore on, trying to ignore the many tiny needles Thranduil favoured skewering him with. They weren’t all verbal, of course, and some were couched in terms of civility that made him realise the attack only hours after they had been uttered.

“It is within my abilities, indeed,” Thranduil spun his goblet – a fine piece of Dwarven crystal-ware, etched with knot-designs chased in gold, set with rubies along the rim – in long pale fingers, catching the light of the torches hypnotically in the facets. He appeared almost as though the other rulers in the room were no more than silent statues. In truth, Thorin thought, the Elf looked like he had no desire to be present at all.

“And what payment would you ask for this boon?” Thorin asked tiredly, wondering if he had sacrificed his budding acquaintance – he dared not call it friendship still – with the Elf. “I have already promised you the return of the gems you sought, as Geira asked it of me in return for safe passage through your lands, a deal you yourself held agreeable.” Thranduil simply smirked.

“So you have.” Draining the goblet slowly, the Elvenking stared at the Dwarf-King beside him. “Would you ask it of me, regardless?” He mused. Thorin glared.

“If you wish for some form of payment, state it!” he said, more forcefully than he meant.

“Perhaps. I shall consider the matter further with my advisors,” Thranduil stated, gracefully rising and gliding from the room, leaving behind the Elf who seemed to be his scribe. “Rusgon. _Aphado_.” He called, and the red-haired ellon was gone before the door closed.

“That…” Thorin grabbed an inkwell, chucking it at the stone wall and watching it shatter with satisfaction. No one dared speak for several minutes.

“What lies between you and Thranduil is not my business, perhaps,” Bard said cautiously. Thorin waved him to continue, still seething. “Have you considered…” he trailed off, looking indecisive.

“Speak, Bard. If you wish to rule, you cannot be afraid to speak your mind.” Thorin barked, his temper still roiling.

“I only thought… you might owe him something of an apology… it was my understanding that you had made peace between you,” Bard said, watching Thorin cautiously.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Ah, Legolas, there you are,” Thranduil remarked lightly, rising from his seat when Legolas entered the room. “I will see you later, sellig,” he added, sweeping past his son who stared after him, feeling slightly shocked by the abrupt departure. Rhonith’s welcoming smile soon made him forget Thranduil’s brusqueness, however, and Legolas sat down to enjoy his own midday meal.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Can _you_ not speak to your father!” Thorin raged, throwing open the door of his Aunt’s bedroom. Legolas, who had been trying to carve an _evermind_ ; an _uilos_ -flower – lost control of his blade, having been so absorbed in his task that he had not heard the irate King storming through the corridor.

“ _Nêg_!” Sliding the small blade from the meaty part of his thumb he cursed. His flower was almost fully coated in blood, but Legolas just stared dumbly at his hand, more of the crimson fluid leaving him with each heartbeat. He had known blood was red, of course, but it had been centuries since he had seen his own, and the sight was almost morbidly fascinating.

“Legolas!” Rhonith cried out, startled by the both of them. “What’s wrong?” Holding out his hand, Legolas grinned.

“I have been wounded in battle, my Lady Princess,” he bowed his head. “Against a foe mightier than all.”

“Complacency, my Lord Prince,” she smirked playfully. “Go bind it.”

“ _Nai! Amarth fêg! **[287]**_ ” Legolas cried, with the air of an old game. Thorin stared. “The fair Princess cares naught for my perils.” Getting to his feet, he bowed extravagantly towards the bed, adding another blatant mockery in Thorin’s direction and left the room, holding his bleeding hand aloft.

 

* * *

 

 

Kíli had spent lunch complaining dramatically about his morning woes at an amused Ori, and regaling him with the – real or imagined – hardships of having an Elf for a friend. The scribe was heartily entertained, his smile making Kíli’s heart leap with joy.

“There you are, Kee,” Fíli said, plopping down beside his brother and digging ravenously into the food before him.

“Starving, brother?” Kíli asked, staring wide-eyed at the speed of Fíli’s hands piling food onto his plate.

“You don’t get to complain to me until you’ve sat through four hours of Thranduil making digs at Uncle – I don’t understand half of them, anyway, but it’s clear Uncle Thorin is not happy – and waiting for the moment when Uncle decides to declare war on the Elves again,” Fíli groused, holding his loot protectively and glaring at Kíli’s hand which was inching towards his roll. “Thranduil left some time before lunch today, after Uncle lost his temper. I couldn’t eat breakfast just thinking about those two and I’m _starving_!” Fíli cried. Ori made a sympathetic noise, pouring a mug of weak ale for Fíli who gulped it thirstily. The scribe wisely switched his drink to milk, having noticed Fíli’s fondness for the beverage at Beorn’s. Kíli smiled at him, making Ori’s cheeks glow.

“Ah!” Nori exclaimed, stealing into the seat beside Ori. “My three favourite youngsters!” His expression would have been more at home on Bofur’s face. Fíli and Kíli gaped at him, while Ori just looked suspicious.

“You’re scheming something,” he accused. Nori affected a wounded mien.

“Who? Me?!” he exclaimed, playing at innocence. Fíli nodded.

“Your voice is different, Nori, and if I didn’t know better I’d say you had been snorting moonstones,” he agreed, pointing half a sausage at Nori. “Also, you look fancier than _Dori_ , which is saying something, considering your usual hair-style is already bizarre enough to garner you all the attention you could desire. What gives?” Nori studied the young prince keenly. It seemed his short stint as Thorin’s shadow had taught the young Heir some much-needed skills of observation. Nori gave them all a fox-like smile, reverting to his normal persona.

“It’s a thing I’m testing,” he professed. “I don’t want to be ‘Lord Nori the Thief’ all my life… my criminal aliases have their circles, but Lord Nori of Erebor needs to be a different dwarf entirely.” Fíli nodded slowly, though Kíli still seemed confused.

“The Owl flies already?” Fíli asked. Only long years of experience allowed Nori to remain calm at the deceptively casual question. Ori joined Kíli in staring confused between Nori’s sharp smile and Fíli’s calm face.

“Owls are silent hunters, my princely friend,” Nori answered disinterestedly. “It’s the peacocks you need to watch out for. Vicious wee beasties, peacocks.” Fíli laughed. With a gallant bow, Nori sprang up from his seat, disappearing before either of them could ask for clarification of his cryptic statement.

“I don’t get it,” Kíli finally admitted, using the confusion to snatch a piece of carrot from Fíli’s still-overflowing plate.

“I don’t think you need to,” Fíli soothed, patting his shoulder. “Not yet, anyway, nadad. So, how was your playtime this morning? Hopefully your elf is less vexing than the one I have to deal with,” he sighed.

“Legolas isn’t vexing, nadad, he’s actually good fun. Secretly humorous. Though it’s weird to think that he knew Amadel when she was a small pebble…” Kíli admitted. “He taught her to use a bow.”

“He did?” Fíli asked, his lunch momentarily forgotten. Ori, too, looked suddenly interested. Kíli preened; for once he knew something his elders _didn’t_ , ha!

“Well,” he began, “It began when Amadel and her parents were part of a trade caravan coming up from Rohan and going through Mirkwood.”

“We used to trade with Rohan?” Fíli interjected, leading Ori to give a small lecture on the exportable goods of the Rohirrim – mainly good quality wool and salt, it seemed, Dwarrow having little use for fine horses – while Kíli scowled at the interruption.

“As I said,” he continued. Ori blushed lightly, but Kíli smiled reassuringly at him. His One was clever, and Kíli found his overflow of knowledge quite endearing – even if it could be a little annoying too – enjoying the way Ori’s eyes lit up when he got to impart some new titbit of information. Glaring at Fíli, who chuckled good-naturedly, Kíli continued his story. “This was before the Elves knew that their lands had been invaded by the spiders we met,” he claimed, “for the first of those foul creatures were seen in those days, attacking the trade caravan Amadel’s parents were travelling with, in fact.” Continuing to spin the story, Kíli kept his brother and Ori entertained right through lunch – it might have been a rather more dramatic version than Legolas’ retelling – until young Flóki came running to fetch him for the duties of his afternoon. Ori returned to his library at a run, startling Mister Baggins enough that the Hobbit fell off a chair. Luckily, Bofur had been keeping him company, and managed to catch Bilbo before he was hurt.

 

* * *

 

 

“I shall never learn to understand Elves,” Thorin said, shaking his head, his temper temporarily forgotten. “No matter the number of years remaining to me.”

“We are not so different from us,” Geira said quietly, a gentle smile playing over her lips. “Why were you shouting at me, Thorin?” Thorin had the grace to blush lightly at the rebuke.

“Thranduil is being difficult.” He groused.

“What has Atheg done to incur your wrath so, Thorin?” Geira replied mildly, though Thorin swore he could see amusement in her blue eyes.

“He is stalling the negotiations, and I cannot see why.” Thorin admitted, pacing around the bed to stare out of the open doors at the vast whiteness that lay between the Mountain and Mirkwood. “I ask for him to aid in restoring the Desolation, returning the soil to fertile farmlands, rejuvenating the woods that once dotted this barren landscape I see before me.”

“And he… what?” Geira asked.

“He challenges me at every turn!” Thorin blustered. “He acts as though this negotiation is worth nothing to him; as though the future of all of this region does not concern him!”

“You lost your temper today, I see,” she said, smirking when he whirled to stare at her.

“I have tried to be patient, to do better, to keep my calm for the betterment of my people!” he yelled. Geira did not flinch.

“You have given an _Elf_ , one who is far better than most at playing masks, a mask to stare at, Thorin,” she pointed out, though not unkindly, waving him to sit. “It is a game you cannot win, and Atheg has just proven that point. You showed a mask to the eyes of people who are unsure whether your madness has truly passed and then you wonder why they do not believe you are fully competent? You gave us a show of meekness – yes, he has spoken to me – and meek is not what _you_ are,” chuckling, Geira put her hand on Thorin’s, squeezing gently. Thorin could only stare at her, reeling from being found out so thoroughly. _He’d been so careful!_ “Your temper is a part of you, and though your rages at the Gates were part of the madness, you have gone so far in the opposite direction now that more minds than Thranduil’s alone have worried that it had simply transformed, giving us gentleness that would eventually vanish and reveal unforeseen cruelty.”

“So… it was… a _test_?!” Thorin spluttered, jumping to his feet once more. The serene smile she gave him was beyond infuriating. Thorin seethed.

“Partially, yes,” Geira admitted calmly, not even slightly cowed by his anger. “One you have passed. There may be others in store; I cannot say, but you have come far in very short time, Thorin Uzbad, and Thranduil is not the only one to worry.”

“Bard suggested that I owed Thranduil an apology.” Thorin said, suddenly feeling drained. He didn’t know what to think. Was she saying the Thranduil’s little game covered… what?

“Perhaps you do, perhaps you do not, this is for you to decide,” Geira said, still calm as she reached to squeeze his hand again. “Atya – my true father – once told me that ‘Each man has his sorrows, of which the world knows not… and oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is merely _sad_ ’. It was not spoken of Thranduil, but of a different Elf, who died long before my birth, but I think it is wise words to remember. As you do not know the mind of another, nor does he know yours.” She smiled, though Thorin’s return was pale. “You were approaching the beginning of friendship before you left Atheg’s Halls… perhaps you should see if it can be salvaged?”

Thorin nodded, getting to his feet with a sigh. He felt calmer, he thought wryly, even if he didn’t like to be caught in this web of a game where he only got to see the rules once his hand had already been lost, it seemed.

“You know, Thorin the first had the right of it.” Shaking his head at his fanciful musing, he smirked, “Sometimes you do make a King feel like he is a blind fool, Auntie,” pressing his forehead against hers before leaving with a light wave of his hand. Geira simply shook her head fondly at his back.

 

* * *

 

Bofur whistled as he left the Library, feeling that most everything was right in his world. Bilbo had forgiven them their lapse in judgement – it would take far longer for Bofur to forgive himself, of course, but that was as it should be, he thought. Spotting Dori, who had proven to have a near encyclopaedic grasp of traditions, Bofur waved the tailor to follow him to a secluded niche.

“Bilbo accepts the Claim of Kinship,” he confided, “but I’m not sure how to go about making it official,” he admitted, scratching the back of his head. Dori clucked at him, amused by the suddenly bashful miner.

“Let’s go speak to Thorin,” Dori proposed. “He’s the one who has to speak the Claim.”

 

* * *

 

 

Kíli stared despondently at the hall the rubble-movers had uncovered. Richly decorated, he thought it had been a guild hall – the weavers’ he thought, staring at the mosaic inlay on the floor. Most of it was scorched, however, bones lying everywhere; giving a horrifying image of a busy workforce surprised by a sudden all-encompassing inferno. He shuddered. Fire had ravaged this room, destroying anything made of cloth or wood and melting most of the metal components. He had already spotted a few skeletons that looked like their hair ornaments had fused into their skulls, the silver and flesh melting at the same time. The crew of workers who had been tasked with the job of sorting the Weaver’s Hall – Kíli had been right, he suddenly realised, looking up to see the words “Dûmu-Ubbân” carved in large letters along the ceiling on one side – looked grim. Dori had told them that her adad had taught her weaving, and Kíli suddenly feared that they might find the remains of Dori’s parent among these burnt bones. Somehow, the thought made the skeletons before him become people in Kíli’s mind. Where before he had been able to see them as remains of life long passed, he now thought of them as distant kin – and how many of them _were_ his kin? – and wondered at what their lives would have been if Smaug had never come to Erebor. The thought filled him with black rage against Thror, though he did his best dispel his dark thoughts as he set up his small table and the long roll of parchment he used to write the name and characteristics – along with the number painted on the box they were put into – belonging to a set of bones. The work was slow and meticulous – the names unearthed would be sorted alphabetically later – but every little thing that could help identify the nameless had to be chronicled. By the end of the second hour, his wrist was protesting the cramped grip he had on his pen every time the workers brought him a new small skeleton.

Many of the dead in the newly unearthed Weaver’s Hall had obviously died swiftly. That, however, was the only real comfort to be found there in the hearts and minds of the workers who had the unenviable task of sorting their remains. To many, this hall was worse than others; weavers in general were gentle folk, and even before the foreman pointed it out, Kíli had realised that there was an exceptionally high amount of very small bones as though a third of the corpses had been little dwarflings.

 

* * *

 

“We found the Weaver’s Hall,” Kíli murmured sadly, when Thorin sat down between him and Fíli during dinner, eschewing his place at the centre of the high table in favour of discovering the reason behind Kíli’s morose expression. Fíli had been trying to coax him into eating, but with little luck, it seemed. Leaning against his Uncle’s good side, Kíli felt the comfort of Thorin’s strong arm wrapping around his shoulders. Thorin squeezed lightly. “There were so many dwarflings,” Kíli whispered despondently, having spent most of the afternoon trying not to imagine happy and laughing dwarflings scampering around their parents – most of the small bones had been surrounded by larger ones in a manner Kíli thought might have been a parent’s shielding embrace if the flesh had not burned and disintegrated over the years. Fíli made a choked sound on Thorin’s other side. Kíli hadn’t been willing to share the reason for his glum mood, answering only in monosyllabic grunts.

“It was wintertime when the dragon came, Kíli, and in those days we did not yet hold sacred the day of Burning. There was no blight upon our joy of the darkest season, the lamps and candles we wrought were blooms of light in the Mountain.” Thorin said, sounding far away in his mind. Dwalin appeared silently, placing a hand on the shoulder of each prince.

“I remember something called Workshop Day,” Dwalin said. “Not a wide-spread event, but some trades allowed their members to bring dwarflings who were not yet old enough to seek a Spark to visit their halls during certain days of Afnu’khazâd. It might well have been Workshop Day in the Weaver’s Halls, Kíli, I simply don’t remember. I was showing my sigin’amad the training grounds.”

“I wasn’t even in Erebor,” Thorin admitted. “Frerin and I had gone hunting, hearing a rumour of wolves prowling the nearby woods and using it as an excuse to escape royal duties… I remember Adad’s face at breakfast that day; he surely knew our plan was a flimsy excuse, little more, but he allowed us to run out and play in the snow anyway.”

“It was a tragedy, Kíli, _mellon_ , to lose so many lives so quickly,” Legolas added quietly, “but you do your distant kin honour by mourning their passing and remembering their names as we remember the names of those who have gone before us.”

“Some of them will have had kin who got out, Kíli,” Thorin promised, “they will thank us for true knowledge of how their kindred died; for the chance to return their bones to the Stone.”

“I just… I don’t like to think of dwarflings burning,” Kíli mumbled, accepting the comforting hugs from his family. No one spoke for a time.

“Perhaps you would like to see my favourite place in the Mountain?” Legolas offered, casting about for a different topic. “I was planning to take Rhonith tomorrow, but certainly she would not mind if you came along.”

“You have a favourite place in Erebor?” Thorin asked, curious almost despite himself. Kíli smiled wanly.

“Should I not?” Legolas asked, looking puzzled. “Our visits may have waned before your birth, Thorin Aran Anfangrim, but I _have_ been here before. More than once,” he winked. Fíli laughed, despite the poor jest.

“What is anfangrim?” Kíli asked, momentarily distracted. Thranduil had called Uncle that, too, but he’d been too busy trying not to fall asleep in his soup during the Victory Feast to take much notice.

“It is…” Legolas paused, looking searchingly at his dinner companions. “Well, it is what you are, _mellon_. In Westron Speech, it means ‘The people of the long beards’, I think is the closest translation. Aran means king.”

“And melon?” Fíli added. He wasn’t sure he liked his brother being compared to a fruit, after all. Even if he couldn’t quite work out where the implied insult lay, he was certain calling someone a melon wasn’t nice – no matter how friendly the tone used!

“Mellon,” Legolas corrected, “it is a friend. Mellyn, plural: friends. Mellon-nîn, friend-of-mine. Your Frís was mellon-nîn, gwathel-nîn.”

“I know that one,” Kíli crowed. “Aunt Geira told me!” His previous melancholy temporarily banished, Kíli smiled proudly. “It’s a sister who is sworn, not born your kin.”

“True,” Legolas smiled. “It is her bond with Nínimeth, our Queen beyond the Sea.”

“So, what is your favourite place?” Thorin asked, wondering what kind of extravagance would find favour with an elven prince. Perhaps the diamond studded Corridor of Stars?

“Lady Vrís’ sitting room. After the accident that stole her legs from her control, Hanar had this outlook made for her, off her sitting room where you could look out towards the city of Dale through a window with a deep seat beneath it. We would sit there, and Rhonith would tell stories while Frís made a mess of my hair,” he chuckled, flushing lightly when the Dwarrow laughed at the conjured image. “She was very small then. She got better at braiding when she got older, but it is still one of my favourite memories of Erebor.”

“I haven’t even checked to see if their house still stands,” Thorin cried out, dismayed by the sudden realisation that he had almost forgotten about his maternal grandparents. “I don’t even know whether they died there, or tried to flee and were trapped somewhere.”

“I did not mean to upset,” Legolas said hastily, wishing for Rhonith’s presence to tell him whether the angry look on Thorin’s face was truly angry or not. Mortal faces were so confusing at times.

“You merely reminded me of an oversight, Legolas of Mirkwood,” Thorin sighed. Dwalin hummed low in his throat, his large hands still strong and warm on Thorin’s and Kíli’s shoulders. “I think I will join you in seeing my grandparents’ house,” he mumbled. “After lunch, tomorrow. I still have to appear for the morning meetings,” Thorin continued with a deep scowl. Legolas watched, bemused, as the Dwarf-King muttered something probably not flattering about his Ada in a tone so low he would not have heard it if he had not been blessed with elven hearing, sharper than most due to his Nandorin heritage.

 

* * *

 

“So, you managed to break Thorin’s control,” Rhonith smirked, when Thranduil entered her room during evening meal – Legolas had been persuaded to eat with Kíli and Fíli, a friendship his ada watched develop with some amusement. The Elvenking nodded solemnly. “Are you satisfied with your test?” she asked. Thranduil poured himself a glass of wine, adding a tipple to Rhonith’s goblet and watering it down. She grimaced.

“Not the same, I agree,” Thranduil said, reading her displeasure easily, but handed her the goblet anyway, “and yes, I am satisfied with that test.”

“And restoring the Desolation?” she asked, toasting him calmly. Drinking the watery beverage was not – by far – as pleasant as the real thing, though it was still tasty.

“I have every intention of seeing the word Desolation struck off the maps of the North,” Thranduil admitted, “only Thorin wants me to name a price that is not Nínimeth’s jewels, and in all my dealings with Dwarrow in the past, they do not trust something given freely, even if I had a mind to do it regardless of payment.” Swirling his drink, Thranduil sighed. “Is it not the duty of all Elves to care for the lands of Arda as we were made to do?”

“So?” Geira waved off the question impatiently. “Ask him something Dwarrow are good at. Rebuild the Old Forest Road, rebuild the Ford Bridge, make them hunt the spiders, _anything_.” Thranduil’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“It is not a bad plan to rebuild the road, perhaps,” he conceded, sipping, “but it would need to be guarded to make it useful. Mithrandir and Galadriel may have chased the Shadow of the Enemy from Dol Guldur, but the spiders remain. Rusgon brought Alfirin’s reports and her patrol spotted three new nesting sites… in the quadrants Legolas’ patrol _had_ cleared before they met you.” Thranduil sighed. “They lost one member in an ambush not three lefneir past.”

“You did not tell me that,” Legolas said quietly from the doorway, his face pale. Thranduil stiffened. He had not heard his son’s silent footsteps arrive at the door. “I- Why would you not tell me?” Legolas asked, feeling blindsided.

“Because you had other worries, ionneg,” Thranduil said quietly, his eyes flicking to Rhonith’s face. “Alfirin assures me that her patrol is capable of finishing the rounds. I did not wish to add to your burdens.” Perhaps he should have, but he had faith that Magoldir had things well in hand and did not need Legolas’ help in assigning a tighter patrol schedule.

“I will return to Mirkwood tomorrow,” Legolas said firmly. “With your leave.” He added as an afterthought, but Thranduil’s face remained stoically blank, rather than show his displeasure at his son’s disrespectful tone.

“If that is your wish, I will not stay you, Legolas,” Thranduil held up a hand to stop his son from leaving immediately, “I do, however, urge you to consider waiting. After today’s breakthrough, I am confident we can resolve matters here expediently, and I believe you ought to remain at least for the official farewell ceremony as a courtesy and a sign of respect for our neighbouring Kingdoms. Give me four days, and I shall leave with you.” Legolas looked indecisive, his eyes flickering once to Rhonith, who had fallen asleep at some point during Thranduil’s revelations. “Rhonith must stay, ionneg,” Thranduil whispered, rising from his seat and trailing his fingers across Legolas’ ear as he passed. “Spend your time wisely.”

 

 

 

[287] Ouch! .... Alas! Evil fate!


	59. A long-lost Letter and a few Announcements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The answer to "What happened to Legolas & Rhonith's Elk?" "What happened to Hanar, the mad inventor?" "What about the Arkenstone??"

The next morning, Legolas did not find himself distracting Kíli on the archery range. Instead, the young prince had returned to his work in the Weaver’s Hall, in order to take the afternoon off for their planned excursion. Dori had told him at breakfast that Rhonith would be getting a bath in her room this morning, and Legolas had learned better by now than to interrupt Dori’s dispensing of gossip and cleanliness. Finding himself at a bit of a loss, Legolas wandered outside, taking an hour or two to spend with Tálagor and the other Elks in the stables. Thranduil’s giant mount, Belaras, had perished in the battle, but Rusgon had brought his somewhat ill-tempered remount, the get of old Belaras from a doe they had thought beyond bearing. For that reason, the elk was named Belant[288], and he had already grown to be every bit as large and strong as his late sire. He had not been fitted with the metal spikes that adorned Belaras in battle – he had been left behind to sire a new crop of fauns when Thranduil went to war – and snorted softly when Legolas stroked his soft nose. Tossing his head, Belant seemed a little impatient, probably longing to be back home, watching over his ladies, Legolas thought wryly.

“Four days, _mellon_ , then we’ll be going,” Legolas promised, before leaving Belant’s box and sitting down next to Tálagor. Aithiel greeted him with a light huff of air that ruffled his hair – Legolas was surprised to see her in the Erebor stables, he had believed she had perished under the onslaught of orcs at Ravenhill. Standing to look over the wall separating the two mounts, he noticed the many cuts on her flanks that had obviously been carefully tended. He had taken care of his own mount – he hardly remembered it in the midst of worrying about Rhonith at the time, but he had forgotten all about Aithiel, feeling guilty for it.

“It was yon wizard fella,” a burly Dwarf with one eye said, pointing at Aithiel, “brought her in three days ago, said she needed the company o’ her friends.” The Dwarf scratched his iron-grey beard thoughtfully. “Might’a had a point, too,” he then admitted, “she’s all happy now, standing next to your fella. Looks heaps better than when the wizard – what’s his face? – Rada-something brought her in.”

“If you need the box, you can put Aithiel in with Tálagor,” Legolas said. “They are friends.”

“If’n you say so, milord Elf, sure,” the Dwarf said. Opening the box, Aithiel stepped daintily through the door, coming to a halt outside Tálagor’s and looking at Legolas like she wanted to scold him for being so slow in coming. When he opened the door, an amused smile on his face and waved her though, she simply walked past him, her posture regal as a Queen’s and lay down next to Tálagor, who began licking her fur gently. Legolas left them to it with a fond pat on each soft head, scratching gently behind Tálagor’s ears. “You know, milord Elf,” the Dwarf said, leaning on the door of the box. “They look damn near smiling now.”

“Have we left adequate feed for her through winter?” Legolas asked.

“Probably,” the stablemaster replied. “She don’t seem to eat as much as the males, does she?” Legolas frowned.

“She should, but if she was unhappy she might not have wanted to. The Elks of Mirkwood are very social, Master…?” he explained, waiting for a name.

“Ashildr. Should I put the bigger fella in there too?” Ashildr asked.

“No. Belant would try to take Aithiel for his own – he is one of the leaders of the flock – and Tálagor would not like that, as Aithiel is not in heat.” Legolas considered the outcome of that match with a shudder. Tálagor might be almost at large as Belant, but he was bred for speed rather than brawn, and was what the Elves considered an unaggressive male. Many had wondered why Legolas would take such an elk for his war-mount, but Tálagor _could_ fight – and rather well, as he had recently proven – he just had little interest in fighting over females.

 

* * *

After lunch, which the three royal Durins – and Dwalin – had eaten with Legolas and Geira in Geira’s room, the six made their way through the halls of Erebor. Legolas had picked up Geira, who was humming softly, her eyes closed as her hand trailed along the wall.

“What are you doing?” Legolas asked, alerting the rest of them to Geira’s actions.

“Seeing,” she replied. Thorin shared a knowing glance with Dwalin.

“What is your sense, Auntie?” he wondered. Geira smiled at the moniker. Opening her blue eyes, she looked at Thorin, gently trailing her fingers across the stone.

“Pathways, and such things; I would never get lost inside a mountain, and, if you asked me to, I could probably draw you a map of the corridors and caves around us. Fault-lines. In Khazad-dûm they called my kind The Feelers Who Listen… it does not translate well in Westron,” she chuckled. “I touch, and tell you where the breaks are, where the exploitable seam may be found – I am particularly good at mithril, though there is none here – and if stone has been carved, I can usually tell you when it was shaped, and – if the stone was shaped by someone with a true Spark – I can feel who, as well. Provided I know them, of course. It’s a party-trick, mostly.” Geira placed her palm flat against the straight wall. “For example,” she said, sounding slightly distant as her eyes saw shapes in her mind, “this wall is just over two feet thick, and the room on the other side is four meters across, and 2 meters high. One wall curves, and there are… three light-shafts.” With a grin, Fíli opened the next door, and the Dwarrow all piled up, staring into the gloomy room which had the dimensions Geira had described, and seemed to be stuffed with old musty linen and bedding.

“That’s some trick,” Kíli whistled.

“As with most of our skills, your senses grow stronger with age… and I have had many years to grow comfortable with mine, bulsalus,” Geira smiled. Kíli grinned. He liked that he was the only one who had merited a nickname, elbowing Fíli who scowled.

“How far can you range?” Thorin asked, oblivious to his nephews’ antics. Bofur’s was just about the limit he knew of, and that was about three hundred yards or so – and only told him where seams of precious metal could be found. With Geira’s skill, they might have forewarning about gas pockets, about the natural cavern structure of the deep underground; the possibilities were astounding. His own sense of underground direction – knowing which way he faced and how far above him the surface lay had been useful in the past – now seemed to pale into utter insignificance.

“Further than you think possible,” she winked conspiratorially. “If I were less exhausted, I could draw you all of Erebor standing at the top of it, all the way down to the deepest of these mines. I could extend myself all the way beyond Dale, though it takes great concentration.”

“You could tell us how to make the mines safe again!” Thorin cried, excited. The Treasury alone was almost a mile wide, and the mines several times bigger than that, of course.

“I could certainly tell you how stable the rock is. Making it safe… would be up to your building crews.” Geira yawned. “If we are to make it to your grandparents’ house before I need more rest, we should get moving. When I am well, we will speak more on your need for stable rock.” The group set off once more.

 

“This is it?” Kíli asked, staring at the modest building. It wasn’t much larger than the house he’d grown up in in Ered Luin; certainly not as grand as some of the other buildings that had been the homes of Guild Masters. Ori had spent all of their breakfast conversation expounding on the topic, going over the differences in wealth possessed by a Guild’s Master compared to a minor nobleman, for instance. The scribe had not found any deed with the name Hanar, son of Hadar on it, but Kíli had rather expected to be shown to one of the large mansions on Emerald Way – Fundin’s neighbour had been the head of the Goldsmith’s Guild, after all – and he felt oddly let down by their destination. Moonstone Crescent was a nice enough area, he guessed, from listening to Uncle Thorin’s stories, but it was not as grand as living in one of the ‘spokes’, the finest streets that connected Erebor’s outer roads to the central hub of the Royal Palace; Moonstone crescent was one such outer road, running along the western half of the mountain.

“Aye, Kíli,” Geira said, amused by his confusion, “this is the house of Hanar, Master Blacksmith and Master of the Blacksmith’s Guild of Erebor. Your great grandfather’s house. It was built by Master Gunnar, his best friend, whose house is the one on the left. Or was, Gunnar died some years before Smaug, during the construction of a different project when a load bearing rope snapped and he pushed his daughter out of the way of a block of falling marble.”

“Why would a Guild Master live here?” Fíli asked, running his hand over the exterior wall of the building. “It’s hardly a prime location.” He looked up at his uncle, echoing Kíli’s light disappointment and confusion.

“It is, Fíli,” Thorin laughed, surprised by himself. “I remember asking Hanar that very same question. He told me this was the best place in the Mountain in his opinion. It is close to the stairs that lead to the Blacksmith’s Forges and Guild Hall, and when we get inside, you will see why Prince Legolas liked the sitting room so much.” Chuckling, Thorin began to push at the door, expecting it to be open. Nothing happened.

“Let me,” Geira asked, just as Thorin was about to wonder if they needed a key. Stepping up behind him, keeping her arm on Legolas’ in case she stumbled, Geira leaned in, trailing her fingers over the door. “I made this door,” she revealed, pressing her palm against a seemingly random sequence of geometric shapes in the intricate pattern that decorated it. They could hear the distant sound of stone against stone as the door swung open. A gust of old musty air met them.

“How…?” Thorin breathed. His grandparents had always used a key, the few times when he had visited that Vrís had not already been at home to open it.

“I am my parents’ daughter Thorin,” Geira laughed wryly. “Did you think I learned none of their tricks?”

Thorin shook his head, amused almost despite himself, and offered her his arm. Together, they stepped into the darkened house.

Dwalin had caught Rhonith when she stumbled, and Legolas had pointed him toward the seat that Vrís had used as her embroidery nook, thinking that he could almost see her as she had been, golden curls shining in the candlelight and a small smile as her daughter begged for another bedtime story and tried to hide her yawns. Pulling back the musty curtains and opening the shutters, he revealed the spectacular view of the snow-covered desolation, the smudge that was Mirkwood barely visible in the distance, and the light of the setting sun shone directly into the dusty room.

“Oh,” Kíli breathed, awed. The window was large – about the height of a dwarf and equally wide. Rhonith smiled, turning her face into the light of the setting sun.

“When Ada’s business with Thrór was completed, I could sneak up here,” Legolas revealed. I think I came here four times before we stopped coming to the Mountain altogether,” he counted thoughtfully. “Rhonith, of course, came far more often.”

“Where are the bodies?” Fíli wondered, opening another door that revealed a neat kitchen, with a missing chair around the dinner table. “And why is the chair missing?”

“My grandmother could not walk,” Thorin explained, “an accident in my mother’s youth severed her spine. Grandfather Hanar built her a chair with wheels, which she used to get around Erebor as best she could. It was an advanced piece of engineering.”

“Thorin,” Dwalin called, having opened another door. “They’re in here.”

The bodies of Hanar and Vrís were remarkably well-preserved. Lying curled into each other, they might have died in their sleep if not for the dagger handle still protruding from Hanar’s chest. Thorin gasped.

“There’s a letter, Uncle,” Fíli pointed quietly, a piece of paper lying innocuously on the table by the bed.

 

> _Thorin,_
> 
> _I don’t know that you will ever read these words, for Thrór might well get you killed before Erebor can be reclaimed. I hope, however, and your grandfather hopes too, that one day you will return, find our bodies, and regain our old home._
> 
> _You may not agree that what we have done here is right, but we see no other way. I cannot get out, and Hanar refuses to leave me behind, even for our daughter’s sake._
> 
> _‘Frís will be safe’, he tells me, ‘our dear Rhonith will see to it.’_
> 
> _I can only hope you already know of whom I speak, but if you do not, bring this letter to Thranduil, King of Mirkwood, your western neighbour, and he will tell you of our beloved friend and sister._
> 
> _Give my love to your siblings, your parents, and to whatever children have come of our line in the years since we have been gone, and tell them I am sorry to miss out on their lives, their joys and sorrows._
> 
> _Your loving Sigin’amad,_
> 
> _Vrís, daughter of Rekkr._

> _Thorin, Frerin & Dís, my joyous wee pebbles,_
> 
> _Don’t listen to Vrís, I’m certain you’ll all live to see Erebor reclaimed – and if you do not, we will await you with welcoming arms in Itdendûm!_
> 
> _We tried to run, but the dragon has cut off access to the lower halls, and Vrís’ chair was lost when part of a wall crumpled on top of us. We cannot get out, and so we have decided to return to our home, lock the door, and welcome a death of our own making. I refuse to be eaten by a dragon because my in-law was too fool-headed to listen to the council of one of the Wise!_
> 
> _Thorin; to you I leave all my tools, my works, and the keys you will find in the nightstand that open the chests in the workshop I never wanted you to touch when you were a Dwarfling. I hope the answer to the mystery of their contents will satisfy you as an adult to the same degree that withholding it vexed you as a young Dwarf learning my trade._
> 
> _To Frerin, I leave my Adad’s instruments and the books of songs he collected, in the hope that he will once more fill the halls of Erebor with laughter and music. It is also my hope that he will pass on his skills with the fiddle to his – or the rest of your – offspring, for music has always run strongly in the blood of both the families that made our daughter, your beloved mother._
> 
> _To Dís, I leave this house, though she will not remember it, as well as all of Vrís’ tapestries – hopefully she will know by the time she reads these words, that she should not chew on the gold thread!! Know that you are the most beautiful of my grandchildren, and accept my hope also that you will fill – we already know Thorin’s heart lies elsewhere, and Frerin is not the fatherly type, so it falls to you, dear granddaughter – this house with the laughter of your children and your children’s children._
> 
> _To Rhonith – you must find her, Thorin, I beseech you. Whatever it takes – I leave the secrets we discovered together; do with them as you please, my dear, and know that I am grateful for all you have done for my family throughout the years. Know also that Vrís and I will find your amad, and do our best to tell her all the stories we remember about you. We will bring your love to your son, too, never doubt it._
> 
> _To my beloved daughter – if your amad is no longer alive, Thorin, this gift belongs to all of you – I leave the book in the nightstand, filled with the pictures we have drawn these past few days of all the family we remember. May their faces bring back good memories and laughter, and may you enjoy searching the faces of your children for the signs of their kinship with those who are long-gone._
> 
> _For the Prince of Mirkwood, Legolas go-Thranduil, I leave the dagger in the nightstand; it is a match to a gift I made him long ago, and I know he will treasure it._
> 
> _To my good friend Thranduil, I say this: ‘The leaks were not my fault, ha!’ … he will know what it means. To him, I also leave the book in my workshop called ‘Sword-making in the First Age’ which I know he will find interesting._
> 
> _To the next Master of the Blacksmith’s Guild – I’m looking at you, Thorin – I leave my Seal, also hidden in this nightstand. Beside it, you will find the Weaver’s Seal, which Master Hella left behind when she ran out to find out the source of the commotion. She is dead now._
> 
> _If none of my Line are left alive to read these words, I place the task of finding Rhonith in the hands of Erebor’s new King, for it will be her task to sort our estate and determine what is to be done with our things._
> 
> _Grandmaster Blacksmith Hanar, son of Hadar, Master of the Cold-Iron._

 

Thorin stared at the words in his hand, a few tears trailing down his cheeks as they brought back vivid memories of both his grandparents that he had not recalled in my years. Once again he could hear the rough edges of Hanar’s voice, smoke from a lifetime in the forge, could smell the light scent of Vrís perfume as she wrapped her arms around him in a hug or pulled him onto her lap for a cookie. Leaving the room on wooden feet, he handed the letter silently to Geira, whose eyes opened sharply before she turned her gaze to the words Hanar and Vrís had seen fit to impart in their final hours. Thorin turned around walking straight to Dwalin and hiding his face in the warrior’s big chest, taking comfort in the strong arms that wrapped around him.

“What does it say?” Fíli asked, leaning against the doorway, but made no move to get closer to the letter that had affected his Uncle so much. Kíli took up space beside him as they watched tears slide down Geira’s cheeks, her voice slightly shaky as she began to read aloud. A few half-sobbed laughs escaped her when she read Hanar’s admonishments, and she leaned into Legolas’ body gratefully, letting him wrap his arm around her shoulders. A small smile played around his mouth when she read the bequest Hanar had made for him, and became an outright chuckle at the lines regarding Thranduil. The argument was almost as old as their first meeting, and it was one the two had bickered amicably about every time they met.

When she fell silent, no one spoke for a long while. The sun disappeared slowly behind the horizon. Finally, Dwalin cleared his throat.

“We should get down for supper. We’ll leave their bodies for now.” Thorin made a sound of protest, but Dwalin hushed him gently, stroking his back. “Dís will want to say her goodbyes, even if she doesn’t remember them as you do, amrâlimê,” he whispered. Thorin stayed silent, considering. Then he nodded against Dwalin’s shoulder, taking his hand and leading the way out of the house.

“Does it lock automatically? He asked, when Geira reappeared in the arms of Legolas, her face still streaked by tears. Kíli squeezed her hand, earning him a pale smile.

“It will. I’ll show you how to open it later. For now, I have left the letter inside,” she whispered, squeezing Kíli’s hand in return.

The group walked on in sombre silence. Fíli and Kíli might not have known their great grandparents as anything but a pair of names and a few stories, but suddenly they felt like real people, people who had loved and grieved, people who had left indelible marks on their own amad and on Amadel and Uncle Thorin. Listening to words the two Dwarrow had written so many years before made them come alive, quiet kindness and brash strength, in a way no story could ever hope to emulate.

 

* * *

 

 

Legolas hade made good on his offer of carrying Rhonith down to the evening’s meal, though he had been forced to relinquish her to Dori’s fussy hands soon afterwards to take his place beside Thranduil. Legolas had wanted to sit with Rhonith, but Dori had told him they’d be introducing her as a Dwarf Princess and she ought to sit with the royal Durins. She had been dressed to look the part, in what Legolas recognised as Durin-blue, her shiny hair – the lustre had returned to the long locks, which made hope fill him – decorated with sapphires and silver beads. Kíli had regained his happy mood, spinning a tall tale about some of his and Fíli’s pranks in Ered Luin which made Rhonith’s pretty smile appear on her face as she laughed.

“I have some announcements tonight,” Thorin called, his voice carrying across the friendly clamour of voices in the Food Hall as the Mountain’s inhabitants exchanged the day’s gossip and concentrated on filling their plates. They all looked up at his words, however. “Firstly,” Thorin began, rising from his seat and moving to stand behind Dwalin. “I wish to announce that my One has accepted my proposal of marriage.” Thorin calmly waited for the expected roar of congratulations and well-wishes to die down before he continued. “Most of you already know Dwalin, son of Fundin, son of Farin, as my Shumrozbid of many years, a position of great importance, which he will continue to hold as my consort.” Another roar of sound filled the hall, someone calling for celebratory ale. In her seat next to Dori, Geira smiled proudly, her blue eyes twinkling at Thorin as she toasted him with her goblet of milk. Thorin smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to Dwalin’s lips to the sound of much applause. Dwalin looked a little overwhelmed, clearly not expecting such an announcement to be made, but he kissed Thorin back gamely. The Dwarf-King smirked. He knew Dwalin would find some way to punish him for this spectacle, but he also knew that it was necessary to announce their marriage well in advance. Dwalin squeezed his remaining hand. “Secondly,” Thorin continued, when the cheers had abated slightly. Someone in the kitchens had been quick to tap another barrel of Dáin’s ale, and mugs were being filled quickly. “I wish to officially introduce my Aunt, Princess Geira of Khazad-dûm, whose injuries sustained in the Battle of Five Armies prevented her from appearing at the recently held Trial.” Thorin gestured to Geira, who rose, clearly supported by Dori on one side and Nori, who had snuck behind Kíli to spare the youngest prince the hassle of getting up, on her other, to bow towards the audience. Sinking back into her seat, she breathed a slight sigh of relief that the Dwarrow could not see the fatigued tremble in her legs. “Lady Geira, she who was deed-named Usakh at the beginning of this Age, was adopted into my Amad’s family as her sister 300 years ago, though she was born as the niece of Durin the second, daughter of the famous Stonecarver Narví and her Elven husband, the renowned Elvensmith **Ratkh-kablân** of Eregion.” The cheers were raucous, many craning their necks for a better glimpse of this piece of living and breathing history. Geira smiled, something melancholy in her eyes that made Dori pat her hand comfortingly.

“Thank you, Thorin,” she said, her voice quiet but clearly heard across the large room, “for your kind words of welcome.” Thorin bowed. “As you may or may not have heard, I have been adopted into many families over the years, not least of which is the royal line of Mirkwood, where I have walked as the adopted daughter of Thranduil Elvenking for more than an Age. It is my hope that my strong ties to both my peoples will aid in ushering in a new era of prosperity for the North.” When Geira fell silent, the Hall did not. Cheers and shouts of welcome could be heard throughout the room, as Dwarrow – mostly those whom Dáin had introduced her to before the battle – began telling their peers every thread of gossip they had heard about the King’s ancient aunt.

“Furthermore,” Thorin said drily, when the first hubbub had died down. The audience stared at him expectantly. Thorin smiled. “It has recently been discovered that Lord Bilbo Dragonriddler of Erebor is a blood-relation of Lady Athalrún, wife of Lord Bombur of Erebor. It is my will – and great personal pleasure – that this kinship be acknowledged and written in the annals of our Realm.” Thorin waved at the furiously blushing Hobbit to stand. Bilbo gripped Bofur’s fingers tightly, but he did rise to his feet with a small bow. “It is also my deep joy to announce an upcoming work that will honour the names of our builders for centuries to come – the Reconstruction of the City of Dale, a project that will begin after the spring thaw.” Thorin knew that the sheer scale of the proposed work would have many of the audience writing to their kinsmen – close or distant – bringing them flocking to his doors to be allowed to work on such a prestigious project. “Lastly, it is my distinct pleasure to announce a renewal of the friendship between two so ancient races as the Eldar and the Dwarrow, symbolised by the revival of the land now called the Desolation and the recreation of our ancient road through the forest of Mirkwood, which has been left in disrepair for too long.” At this, Thranduil rose, bowing his head to Thorin, who returned the nod solemnly. No one seemed to know how to take that, but when Dáin began clapping wildly, the Hall followed his example. Thorin returned to his seat, taking Dwalin’s hand in his with a gentle squeeze before leaning in to speak in a low voice with Thranduil, who had been granted the seat on his other side.

 

* * *

 

 

“Legolas?” Rhonith spoke quietly, startling the Elf out of his contemplations of the thin air in front of him. Legolas had believed her to have fallen asleep after he had carried her back up from the Food Hall, not relinquishing the task to Dori, though he did wait outside for the Dwarf to help her out of the fine gown they had recovered from one of the wardrobes.

“Rhonith?” he asked dumbly, realising that it had gone dark in the room while he had been lost in his own thoughts. The fire in the hearth was little more than scattered embers. Getting to his feet, Legolas poked at the fire, getting the embers relit and throwing another log from the stack beside the hearth onto the flickering flames.

“Help me up?” she asked, reaching for him.

“You want to go somewhere? Back to the pools?” Legolas asked, frowning, but returned to the bedside. She had walked some; trailing dreamily through Hanar’s house, and he had assumed those steps had cost all her current strength.

“No, I simply wish to walk around the room… but I think I should fall if I tried it unaided,” she admitted quietly. “I do not think I remember feeling weaker than this… at least, not in this Age,” she said wryly. Legolas was startled to hear himself chuckle, but she smiled at him. He reached for her hands.

“Will you be well soon?” he asked, taking most of her weight as she tested her feet slowly.

“I am, Glasseg, I promise I will be fine,” he knew she was smiling and did not look to see, simply walking another step. “I still owe you three dances,” she smirked, casting a quick glance at the expression that did not shift from stern blankness at her attempt at levity. “Your mind is miles away, _mellon_ ,” she murmured, turning his face towards her and smoothing his frown. “What troubles you so?”

“Adar told me that the spiders are multiplying rapidly. Alfirin lost someone while we fought in the Battle.”

“When do you leave?” Legolas’ eyes widened, but Rhonith just smiled, running her fingers lightly across his ear. “You forget how well I know you, Legolas go-Thranduil,” she teased, “your sense of duty is unquestionable. As is your wilful stubbornness and your need to protect those you love.” Her eyes were dark in the light of the fire, and for a moment Legolas almost thought she looked wistful. He wanted to tell her that he would be fine, to kiss her until the shadows left her eyes, but that would be too soon, he knew.

“We leave in four days, Ada says.” He replied instead, swallowing the sudden dryness in his mouth. “By then, negotiations should be finished and we have no further business in Erebor until spring comes… you will stay here.” He tried to ask it, but feared it sounded more like an already laid plan. Rhonith chuckled lightly, leaning against his chest. “We will take Aithiel back to Mirkwood too.”

“Aithiel lives?” When she looked up at him, her smile was radiant. Legolas felt a pinch of guilt that he had forgotten to tell her earlier. “It does not matter,” Rhonith remarked, “I do not think I could follow you, _mellon_ , even with sweet Aithiel to bear me across the Desolation. I would fall asleep and break my neck falling.” Legolas drew in a sharp breath.

“Please… do not joke of it,” he whispered, the image of her bloodied and lifeless form on the stones of Ravenhill Tower still far too vivid in his mind. His hands tightened on her shoulders, turning her to face him fully. “Do not jest about death when you so recently avoided it, _hiril vuin_.”

“ _Goheno nin_ , Legolas. I’m sorry I frightened you,” she murmured, turning back to her bed. “Truly, I will be recovered in a few months, I promise.”

“Well enough to enjoy the _Meren Echuir_?” he asked, holding her steady as she sat back down, sliding her too-thin legs underneath the blankets.

“ _Am man theled?_ ” she yawned, snuggling down and pulling the heavy quilts and fur blankets up to her shoulders.

“Dancing,” he chuckled, lightened by the sight of her amused smile. “You owe me three.” This time, he promised himself, he would not let it be a jest between them, but hold her to it, Legolas thought, when she nodded sleepily. Rhonith dozed off as he picked up his carving knife once more; yesterday’s bloodstained flower had been thrown on the fire, but his new attempt looked better anyway, so Legolas was not too sad about the outcome of Thorin’s fit of frustration. When her breathing softened into sleep, he fell into silent watchfulness once more, studying the planes of her face, the bone structure still too sharp for his liking, but her body _was_ mending, he could tell, slowly returning to her former strength.

 

“She will be fine, ionneg,” Thranduil said, coming to a halt behind Legolas’ chair. He had been heading for his own bed, after a long evening of discussion and mending fences with Thorin, only to see the light coming from Rhonith’s doorway. Placing his hands on his son’s shoulders, he felt the younger ellon tense at his presence and then relax into his hold.

“I know, Ada,” Legolas admitted, “but I cannot seem to cease my vexatious worrying!”

“That is the price of loving someone, Legolas,” Thranduil said quietly, stroking his fingers along the top of Legolas’ ear. He smiled wryly when Legolas stiffened at his words, throwing a quick gance at the still slumbering elleth.

“You do not worry about anyone,” Legolas claimed petulantly. Thranduil laughed.

“You and I both know that is not the truth, _ionneg_ , though I am – perhaps – better accustomed to hiding it from those I love.” Thranduil’s rebuke was gentle, but firm, echoing words he had spoken before.

“I know you worried for her when she did not know us, but you did not seem to during the battle.” Legolas persisted, arguing for the sake of argument. Thranduil flicked the back of his head.

“If I let my fears for you – or for Rhonith, or Bronwe, or any of my people – overwhelm me, I could not fight as I do, Legolas,” Thranduil chastised. “It does not mean the fear is not there… I have buried two brothers, a sister, my Adar and two of my sons, Legolas, I know the pain of loss better than many Elves in Middle-Earth.” In his heart, the aching of loss would never abate, the longing to see those he had not known he was farewelling for the last time once more, speak to voices long-gone about things that might seem inconsequential, but might also have conveyed the depths of his heart to their ears. He had tried reaching out to Thonnon, though he had still been angry, after he had been told of Thandir’s death in the war against Angmar, but his son had rebuffed all advances. Thonnon’s children, at least, had been amenable to knowing their forebear, and Thranduil had taken comfort in that, even if the going was slow, at times. “And yet, I cannot let my fear of losing you rule your life, or Rhonith’s, for that matter, but simply trust that I have raised you to be the best warrior you may be, to carry you back to me safely when I cannot shield you.”

“Ada, I-” Legolas began, feeling chastised and guilty, but Thranduil hushed him gently.

“No, Legolas. Do not apologise.” Thranduil tugged the tie from Legolas’ hair, combing out the long strands with his fingers. “No matter how old or strong you grow, how proficient in battle, _ionneg_ , I will still see you as a sweetly sleeping elfling, tired out from chasing your pet elk all day, or the pride in your eyes when I gave you your naneth’s bow… and I will never not worry about you.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I have decided where to put the Arkenstone,” Thorin said as a greeting when Dwalin arrived in their rooms that night. The warrior’s eyebrow rose, but he did not speak. Truthfully, he was still rattled by Thorin’s display during dinner and the many well-wishers – a lot of Dáin’s soldiers were dwarrow he had known during his years in the Iron Hills, with a few actually related to him scattered among them – who had waylaid him on his path to tell his Kingly soon-to-be husband what he thought of the little show. “Thrór called it the Heart of the Mountain… and he made it his own heart. So, I shall bury it where his true heart lays,” Thorin said decisively.

“Where his true heart lays?” Dwalin asked, mystified, peering searchingly at Thorin’s eyes.

“Sigin’amad’s tomb,” Thorin clarified. “I shall tell you, and only you, and if the two of us die before we can tell Fíli, so be it. Perhaps it is the fate of the Arkenstone to be lost for all time.” Thorin sighed. “I do not wish to lay eyes upon it every day of my rule, Dwalin. Let Fíli decide if he wants it for his throne when the time comes.”

Dwalin simply nodded, pressing a kiss to Thorin’s temple.

 

 

 

[288] Belaras = Powerful deer, Belant = powerful gift


	60. Companions and Company

Dwalin woke up happy, though it took him a minute to realise why. When the memory of the night before returned, he smiled, turning around to wrap his arms around Thorin who was snoring lightly. Looking at his sleeping betrothed – officially, now – Dwalin couldn’t help but smile, pressing his lips to Thorin’s to wake him. The King under the Mountain grumbled unhappily, but returned the slow kiss willingly. Thorin was not a fan of mornings in general, but Dwalin had ways of coaxing him into a better mood.

“Good morning,” Thorin whispered, his voice rough with sleep as he blinked up at Dwalin. His smile was slow like treacle, but it lit up his blue eyes. “future husband of mine,” he added, with a cheeky grin Kíli would have recognised from his own face. Dwalin chuckled. Mischievous Thorin did not make an appearance often – and never in public – but Thorin did possess a well-hidden streak of playfulness behind the stern exterior.

“Good morning, sleepy one,” Dwalin replied, kissing the smile on Thorin’s lips. “My own.” A certain possessive satisfaction filled him – he believed Thorin’s claim that whatever it had looked like with Bilbo was not in fact what he had thought, but he still felt a sense of victorious glee at the designation. _Mine._ _Truly._ “My Uthran,” he murmured, dipping his head to claim another kiss.

“I’m sorry I forgot to ask you before I made the announcement,” Thorin offered, slightly sheepish. His head had been too full of the Arkenstone business last night to think about other things, but he hadn’t missed the quickly masked shock on Dwalin’s face when he had made their reconciliation truly official. Running his fingers through Dwalin’s beard, tracing his strong jaw, Thorin bit his lip, slightly nervous as he looked up at his beloved.

“Amrâlimê, did you think I would object?” Dwalin wondered, frowning lightly as he pulled back to study Thorin’s face. The slight grimace that crossed Thorin’s face revealed his insecurities to Dwalin’s practised eye. With a loud groan, Dwalin flopped back to lie next to Thorin.

“Not… not _really_ … but,” Thorin hesitated, “when I walked out of the hall later, I thought I should have asked you again before announcing my impending marriage to everyone.” He turned, slightly apprehensive. Dwalin stared at the ceiling.

“Sometimes, ma Thorin,” Dwalin rumbled, his accent heavier than usual, “you are as much of a daft cookie as Dís so often claims.” Thorin laughed, almost involuntary, using his good arm to rise up, studying Dwalin’s face. Leaning down, he brushed a kiss across the bridge of Dwalin’s nose, before claiming Dwalin’s lips with his own.

“I should hope not, Dwalin. **Dehrar gêdulimê**.” Thorin whispered, returning to the task of kissing his One good morning.

“So there’s no doubts rattling around underneath all this hair,” Dwalin murmured against his lips, running his fingers through Thorin’s long locks and tugging lightly, “yes, I do want to marry you. If you feel like you have to ask me again, however, feel free.” Scratching gently along Thorin’s scalp, Dwalin smirked into the kiss when he was rewarded with a light moan.

“ **Astu sanzigilu kurduwê.** **Zasashhani e?** ** **[289]****” Thorin mumbled, nipping at Dwalin’s lips. Dwalin’s large palms stroked down his back, bringing Thorin closer to his broad chest with a happy rumble. Thorin straddled his hips, deepening the kiss.

“ **Maralmizu** **Uthranimê** ,” Dwalin smirked, cupping Thorin’s backside. “ **Kun, amrâlimê, za-ashhanizu** ,[290]” he whispered. Thorin laughed, the sound cut off by a slight moan when Dwalin’s grip on his hips pressed their morning erections against each other. Rubbing himself against Dwalin, Thorin moved his mouth down Dwalin’s bearded jaw.

“Please tell me we can spend the morning in bed?” Thorin mumbled against Dwalin’s skin, nipping lightly at his ear. Dwalin growled. With a smirk, Thorin wrapped his lips around the cuff Frís had once made for Dwalin’s Nameday, tugging the silver gently. Dwalin’s ears were surprisingly sensitive, he knew, taking full advantage of the fact, even as Dwalin began thrusting lightly up against him.

“If we skip breakfast… maybe we’ve time, kurkarukê. For a quickie,” Dwalin moaned, getting revenge for the ear nibbling by leaving a trail of fiery kisses down the side of Thorin’s neck. The King cursed lowly.

“Like old times,” Thorin chuckled, ending on a gasp when Dwalin’s mouth found the sensitive spot beneath his ear.

“Nah, we’re not in the armoury,” Dwalin chortled, moving down to suck a bruise into Thorin’s exposed collarbone. “And your grandfather isn’t waiting for you…” Thorin hissed at the memory.

“I want more…” he whined lightly, trying not to laugh as he repeated the words he’d once uttered during an illicit tryst in the armoury, leading to the first time Dwalin had used his mouth on him.  When one of the warrior’s large hands ventured underneath his sleep shirt, wrapping firmly around the both of them, Thorin mewled lightly, nipping at Dwalin’s ear as he thrust into Dwalin’s tight fist. Dwalin’s free hand squeezed his arse, his strokes finding the rhythm that pleased them both with the ease of long practice. With a light groan, Thorin fell down, resting all his weight on Dwalin as his fingers trailed up Dwalin’s skin, aiming for the steel bar in his nipple. The warrior’s moans rumbled through his chest and into Thorin’s as his hand slowly sped up, making Thorin hiss in pleasure. Lifting his head from Dwalin’s shoulder to look at his eyes, pupils blown wide with lust, Thorin dragged his lips across Dwalin’s. “I want to touch you too,” Thorin mumbled, pushing himself a little higher, his strong fingers rolling the small piercing as he swallowed Dwalin’s rough moans.

“Well, why didn’t you say so,” Dwalin chuckled breathlessly, rolling them easily until Thorin was beneath him. “Give me your hand, my pretty One,” Dwalin murmured, keeping up his rhythmic strokes as he leaned most of his weight on his left arm. Thorin whined. Pulling Dwalin down on top of him, Thorin changed his mind, twisting his fingers into the hair at the back of Dwalin’s neck instead, using his grip to bring Dwalin’s mouth in range of his kisses once more. Hitching one leg around Dwalin’s hip, Thorin made his beloved thrust harder against him, enjoying the slippery friction.

“Don’t stop, Dwalin, please,” he moaned, tilting his head back to offer Dwalin the unmarked skin of his throat. Dwalin growled, setting to the task of ensuring that Thorin would remember the shape of his mouth. Thorin’s hand drifted down to squeeze his arse, moaning when Dwalin sucked hickeys into his skin.

 

* * *

 

 

Bifur was wandering through the halls and streets of Erebor, singing softly as he learned the Mountain’s moods, enjoying the peace of the early morning when most Dwarrow were still at breakfast. He preferred eating once the Food Hall was mostly empty, choosing instead to get a head start on his day. Young Flóki had joined him, their voices rising harmoniously towards the ceiling. Visiting the Ruby Ward was among his daily duties, filling the stone there with calm and restful Song, designed to promote healing in those who were under the care of the healers. The two Singers were greeted with head nods and smiles as those in pain felt their burdens lift slightly. The Song was not so effective as medicine, of course, but a peaceful heart healed quicker; Dwarrow had always known that they were made from Stone, and so it made sense that Stone was involved in making them well when injured. Bifur knew that the few Men who were left in the Ruby Ward did not understand what they did – he wasn’t sure if the Men actually felt the influence of the Stone Mother’s presence – but they fell silent when he and Flóki made their rounds; a sign of respect. The Dwarrow who had been too injured to return to the Iron Hills – particularly those who had lost limbs, or suffered wounds to the abdomen or torso that made moving difficult – appreciated the presence of the Singers, however, more than a few of them asking for renewal of whatever charms they had brought from home, or simply a calmly listening ear when they needed someone to complain to. For that purpose, Bifur had brought a few of the blocks of wood he had found in an old carpenter’s workshop, and would sit calmly, carving something as Song flowed from his lips, leaving the small masterpieces behind when the Dwarf’s woes had been extolled. Flóki had stared at him the first time he had seen Bifur pull out knife and wood, but there was something hypnotically calming about watching the Master Carver at work, for both him and the patients. Lívhild, who was not used to Bifur’s oddities and who still seemed more than a little awed simply by the axe embedded in his skull, had tried to stop him, complaining about possible splinters, but Óin had firmly squashed her concerns.

“Can you carve anything?” Buro asked, fascinated by Bifur’s swift hands bringing a small boar with piglets to life from the pale yellow block of wood. Bifur nodded thoughtfully. The soldier was one of the ones – depressed by the lack of the leg that had been severed a little higher than mid-thigh – who enjoyed Bifur’s visits the most. Buro didn’t care about the lack of verbal answers to his infrequent questions, the company and the attention were enough for him.

 

* * *

 

 

They had skipped breakfast, but, even so, Thorin was running late for the council meeting. Dwalin had promised to smuggle some food in for him, so Thorin ignored his grumbling stomach as he strode briskly through the Halls of Erebor, nodding to the workers who greeted him but not stopping for a chat like he often did to keep in touch with the progress. His mind was busy circling the upcoming meeting; he might have reached a détente with Thranduil, but Thorin had no illusions that the Elvenking’s trust had been restored. That thought led to ones of Dwalin, wondering how he had deserved such a forgiving One and vowing to find more ways of showing the big warrior how much he meant to Thorin. The sight of the small girl stopped him dead in his tracks, pushing all his half-formed plans out of his mind.

“Good morning, Miss Tilda,” Thorin said quietly, wondering what the little girl was doing wandering the Halls of Erebor unsupervised; a Mountain filled with busy stone-haulers and builders was hardly a safe place for a small child. Looking around, he saw neither of her siblings nearby – Bard, of course, was waiting in the council chambers – which made sense to Thorin. While young Bain had been left to the company of one of Dáin’s still-healing lieutenants for weapons practice, Sigrid spent most of her time studying in the healing Halls, which was where he assumed Tilda was meant to be.

“Mister Thorin!” she exclaimed, looking up at him with that wide-eyed fear of a child who knows they’ve been caught misbehaving. Thorin nearly laughed, remembering that very same expression on Kíli’s face the last time he’d been caught stealing a cookie from the jar without permission. Of course, he mentally added, that had been less than a year earlier; the expression was more adorable on Tilda’s face than on Kíli’s grown-up features.

“Are you lost?” Thorin asked, keeping his voice mild and lightly concerned. Tilda shook her head, but her lower lip wobbled until she ended with a nod. She clutched her ragdoll tighter, staring up at him with that same combination of sadness and mischievous spirit that always melted his heart when Fíli and Kíli were small.

“Fíli was in the Hospital this morning. He told me there’s a corridor filled with stars,” she mumbled plaintively. “I just wanted to see it!”

“The corridor of diamond stars is certainly worth seeing,” Thorin agreed, crouching slightly to make himself seem less intimidating. “Don’t you think you should have asked for a guide, however?”

“Please don’t tell Da,” she whispered, biting her lip. “I’m not supposed to run away from Sigrid. She likes the hospital, but it’s icky!” Tilda grimaced, and once more Thorin stifled his mirth. Fíli used to say much the same after every visit to Óin’s surgery.

“Well, sadly I don’t have time to show you right now, I’m late for a meeting with your Da,” Thorin said slowly, taking her small hand. A perfect idea popped into his head. “But, if you don’t want to sit in the Hospital waiting for your sister, I have an Aunt who is an excellent story-teller… I’m sure she would love some company.”

“But all the adults are busy!” Tilda protested. Thorin had to admit that was true, no one who was in the Mountain was not working _somehow_ … except Geira. “Sigrid says I should sit still and keep quiet and not be a bother.”

“Ahh, but my Aunt isn’t allowed to leave her bed much, yet, so really, you’d be doing me a favour by keeping her company,” Thorin explained, watching a hopeful light enter the little girl’s face. “I’m sure it’ll be more fun than sitting in an icky hospital,” he coaxed gently. Tilda nodded slowly. Taking his hand, she looked up at him, perfectly trusting in the way that always made Thorin’s heart beat a little faster when he’d seen it on the faces of his small nephews. He smiled, rising to his full height and set off up through the Mountain. The meeting with Bard could wait an extra fifteen minutes.

 

* * *

 

“We will be leaving soon,” Legolas told Kíli during their morning competition – he had actually begun looking forward to his archery sessions with the young Dwarf, whose infectious spirit seemed to lift some of the worries he felt for his people – or at least push them to the back of his mind for a little while.

“Really?” Kíli joked, “and here we were beginning to think Thranduil was going to make a permanent settlement in our Guest Halls.” Legolas chuckled, despite himself. Kíli smirked, hitting his target dead centre.

“I hope you will visit with Rhonith when we have gone, mellon,” Legolas asked, hitting his own target precisely.

“She’ll not be lonely,” Kíli promised. “Between us and Dori and Dwalin, she’ll hardly have a moment alone!”

Legolas knew he was exaggerating, but the words still made him smile.

 

* * *

 

“Thorin?” Geira yawned, waking at the opening of her door. She frowned at him. Dori had been by with breakfast, but she had not expected to see anyone else till lunchtime.

“Hello, Auntie.” Thorin smiled, pushing the door a little wider to reveal Tilda, who was staring wide-eyed at the elleth in the bed.

“Tha’s your auntie?” Tilda whispered, pulling on Thorin’s sleeve. The King laughed.

“That’s my aunt, her name is Geira.” He confided, nudging Tilda through the door. “I found miss Tilda wandering the halls; a bit lost,” Thorin explained, looking at Geira. “I thought you might be able to entertain her more than sitting in the Ruby Ward waiting for her sister’s chores to be done.”

“Hello, Tilda,” Geira said. “I think I remember that you were the girl who liked stories about the corsairs of Umbar.” Tilda nodded shyly, her ragdoll held tight to her chest. “And who have you brought to see me?” Geira gestured at the doll.

“Lusa,” Tilda replied, holding out the doll with its worn blue dress. “Mama made her for me, Sigrid says,” she revealed.

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Miss Lusa,” Geira said, giving the little girl a fond smile. “Would you like to hear a story?” Tilda shot a look up at Thorin, but the smiles on the adults’ faces convinced her she was welcome to stay.

“I’ll send someone to fetch her for the midday meal,” Thorin promised, “if you don’t mind watching her until then.” Geira nodded, smiling fondly as she watching Tilda discover the long row of figurines Legolas had left on her bedside table. He really was getting a lot better, she thought, bringing a distinctively elven style to Bifur’s teachings.

“I’m sure Tilda and I can pass the time together, Thorin. You go sort out your Kingdom,” she chuckled. Watching Tilda gravitate to a pretty bird, Geira smiled, nodding permission to touch the small toys. “I know a story about an Owl Princess,” she offered, chuckling when Tilda climbed onto her bed, still holding the small bird and a poorly carved rendition of a warrior. “In a land far away from here, where the sun bakes the earth until it is hard as stone, there lived a prince in a castle…”

Thorin smiled as he walked away, listening to the quiet sound of her voice fading with the distance.

 

* * *

 

 

“Da!” Sigrid cried, barging into the meeting room just ahead of Thorin. “Tilda is missing!” she cried, looking imploringly around the room as though Bard would have smuggled her to a council meeting.

“Missing?” Bard asked, staring at his usually unflappable daughter wringing her hands.

“I only turned my back for a second… I told her not to move, but she must have snuck out, because the next time I looked, she wasn’t there!” Sigrid wasn’t weeping, not yet, at least, but Thorin thought it better to head off any possibility.

“Tilda is fine,” he stated calmly. “I just said goodbye to her, in fact.” Sigrid whirled on him, but it was Bard who asked the question.

“Where is my daughter, Thorin?”

“She was looking a little lost, so I gave her a task to fill the hours Sigrid spends in the Ruby Halls.” Thorin said, pouring himself a mug of weak ale and blessing Dwalin for charming a platter of breakfast out of the cooks for him. “I took her to sit with Geira, listening to a story of an Owl Princess, last I heard.” Bard did not hide his sigh of relief at that; having spent a fair amount of time with the Elvenking’s daughter, he knew that Tilda was in good hands. Thorin dug into his postponed meal – the eggs had gone cold, but it was a minor price to pay for his neighbour’s goodwill.

“I’m sure Rhonith is pleased with a new audience,” Thranduil added, a small smile playing around his mouth. “Shall we return to the business at hand, however?” he asked, gesturing to Balin who was tapping his pen impatiently.

 

* * *

 

 

In the upper reaches of Erebor, Ori was also tapping his pen; thoughtfully, rather than impatiently, as he stared at the blank page before him, feeling curiously blank when it came to ideas about his First Gift for Kíli. He had considered making an illuminated and framed rendition of Kíli’s favourite poem, but come up against the obstacle of not knowing what kind of poetry Kíli might favour. In truth, Ori thought, thinking back on life in Ered Luin, Kíli probably didn’t like a lot of the songs and poems – or perhaps he simply considered them slightly unimportant – that Ori knew he had been made to read as part of Balin’s lessons. The young prince was quick to join in on a song around the campfire during the Quest, but he was hardly the type to sit still and let the words on a page fill him. For a moment, Ori wondered why he felt so connected to someone so different from himself, but then an image of Kíli’s fond smile filled his mind’s eye, making him feel warm and blushing.

“What are you doing?” Bilbo asked, unused to Ori simply staring blankly at his parchments. Ori’s blush deepened.

“I’m trying to decide how to court Kíli,” he confessed in a whisper, certain that Bilbo could have fried an egg on his cheeks as he spoke. “But I can’t think of anything he’d like.”

“Well, if he was a Hobbit you’d give him a bouquet of flowers that expressed what you thought of him,” Bilbo said carefully, feeling a little surprised by Ori’s confession. He hadn’t noticed anything much beyond friendly companionship between the two – certainly none of the coy glances usually shared between two who were newly in love. But maybe Dwarrow were different?

“I don’t think Kíli would like flowers,” Ori said, “and they’re all dead right now anyway.”

“No,” Bilbo tried, feeling wrong-footed about speaking of wooing with someone twice his age but obviously less experienced. Bilbo had certainly dallied in his youth – all Hobbits did, to an extent – but it seemed clear that Ori hadn’t participated much in such things before, which didn’t really surprise him, when he thought about it. Anyone might be inexperienced if they’d grown up with Dori as their main parental influence. “I mean you should tell him you like him?”

“But that’s what I’m trying to do!” Ori said, frustrated. “But he probably wouldn’t like it if I gave him a poem – even if I made it look really pretty – and I don’t know how to use my Craft to show him that I’m interested in knowing him better…” Hopeless, Ori thumped his forehead against his desk with a groan, making the inkpot rattle in its bronze stand.

“Does it have to be writing?” Bilbo asked, more than a little out of his depth. Ori shook his head.

“No, it just has to prove that I know who he is and wish to deepen our connection,” he said, defeated, “and it has to be made by my hand, representing my Craft.” Ori sighed. “I always thought that would be easy, wooing someone with my words – far easier than a swordsmith, for example, a First Gift is supposed to be a little frivolous and you’re not allowed to gift a weapon – but it’s not easy at all. Why couldn’t my One be someone who likes poetry!” he groaned.

“Well, why don’t you write a story about Kíli that tells him you know him?” Bilbo asked, casting about for any combination of words that would make Ori look less despondent. “Or you could draw him a picture?”

Ori sat up suddenly, his eyes ablaze with the fire of creativity. “I know what to do!” he crowed, grabbing a fresh quill. Bilbo backed away slowly, watching Ori’s hand trace lines across the page. The Hobbit shook his head, returning to the reading chair Bofur had scrounged up for him and sank into the wonders of the written word; reading a comprehensive history about the Northmen known as the Éothéod and their friendship with Gondor leading to the creation of Rohan. As he read, he took note of the damaged pages – this was not one of the most damaged tomes, but it was written in Gondorian Sindarin, and Bilbo had spent all morning painstakingly copying Cirth runes from one crumbling scroll to a small stack of parchment, so the break from the angular script of the Dwarrow was welcome.

 

* * *

 

“Ori!” Kíli smiled, waving the scribe to join them for lunch. He wondered why the smaller dwarf was blushing slightly when he sat down, but Legolas distracted him with an archery question until Fíli stole the elf’s attention with his moaning about the recently concluded council meeting. Apparently, Fíli’s trials did not end with Thranduil and Uncle’s apparent truce, but Kíli ignored his brother’s griping in favour of glancing shyly at Ori, who seemed unaware of the streak of ink across his cheek. In Kíli’s mind, it only added to Ori’s adorableness, but he busied himself serving the both of them a hearty portion of stew in order to stop staring at the tiny freckles he hadn’t realised dotted Ori’s nose. He had a sudden impulse to kiss each one, wondering if they continued underneath the knitwear.

“Kíli!” Fíli’s fingers snapping in front of his nose made Kíli jump, his daydream disappearing like mist as he glared at his older brother, certain his face was bright red. “Pass the stew, will you? Ori’s not the only one who’s hungry,” Fíli called, peering at him with a peculiar expression. Flustered, Kíli handed him the ladle, bending his head over his own bowl and hiding behind his dark hair.

“What have you been doing today, Ori?” Legolas asked kindly, while Kíli spooned stew into his mouth and wondered when he’d become an infatuated ninny like the ones he and Fíli used to laugh at when they mooned over Mjoll, the baker’s pretty daughter back home.

“Well, I’ve been working on a few sketches for the Saga of the Quest,” Ori said, “I actually wondered if I could get you to sit for me this afternoon? I want to draw you and Geira fighting the spiders, but I haven’t drawn your face enough to get it right without looking at you,” he continued, blushing lightly. Legolas just nodded.

“I had planned to sit with Rhonith… might you join us?” he asked, buttering a piece of bread. Ori nodded, giving the elf a friendly smile. Kíli found himself loathing his friend for a few seconds for coaxing such a soft expression from _his_ One. Then he felt disgusted with himself for the thought, knowing how much the elf fancied his _aunt_ of all people; Legolas had no designs on Ori.

“Do you need to draw the rest of us too?” Fíli asked between bites, breaking Kíli’s train of thought.

“Perhaps later,” Ori replied, calmly blowing on his spoonful. With a slight grimace he put the piece of greenery – Kíli thought it was a piece of kale – back in his bowl, surreptitiously looking around for Dori.

“Hey, Ori,” Kíli grinned, an idea popping into his head. When Ori turned to look, Kíli snuck his spoon into Ori’s bowl, stealing the bit of green. “Mine!” he crowed, chewing exaggeratedly on the small bit of vegetable. Ori laughed, making butterflies appear in Kíli’s stomach.

“Prince Kíli coming to my rescue,” he chuckled, but Kíli had earned himself a true smile and felt a bubble of happiness burst in his chest, even if he didn’t like that Ori felt he had to use the stupid title – he never did on the quest, after all. “I’ll go fetch my supplies,” he continued, rising from the bench and leaving them with a wave of his ink-stained fingers. Kíli squashed his desire to pout at Ori’s back as the shorter dwarf made his way to the doors.

“Want to visit Rhonith with me?” Legolas offered quietly. “You have time before your afternoon task begins.”

“Not me,” Fíli shook his head, frowning as he ate the last piece of bread. “I have to prepare for my meeting with Dáin, try to sort out a preliminary agreement of payment for the supplies that will last us through winter.”

“I thought Ada was selling you much of what we were foraging for the Lakemen in case they needed to stay through winter?” Legolas replied.

“He is – that was agreed this morning – which means we need fewer supplies from Dáin, which means that deal must be renegotiated. Uncle is letting me try my hand at it, even if he has final approval. Balin thinks I’m ready for it, though I’m not sure.” Fíli heaved a sigh, glumly staring into his empty bowl. Kíli felt a twinge of pity.

“I’ll help you,” he offered, surprising both himself and Fíli, by the look in his brother’s eyes when he raised his head. “I’ll go visit with aunt Geira, then I’ll meet you in the small study near our rooms?” Fíli nodded, a relieved smile on his face. Kíli wondered what he’d just gotten himself into, but he realised that it was an important task Fíli had been given; he couldn’t let his brother fail at the first thing Uncle trusted him doing himself.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hello Glasseg, Bulsalus,” Geira called happily when she spotted the two in the doorway, Legolas carrying a small tray of food.

“Aunt Geira,” Kíli greeted, surprised to see Tilda sitting on top of the covers, playing with one of Legolas’ figures and a ragdoll in a tattered blue dress. “I see you already have a visitor.” Legolas moved, setting down the tray across Geira’s lap. She leaned slightly into the touch he ran along her ear.

“Hello Rhonith,” he smiled, turning to take a seat in his chair and pull out his small carving knife, setting to work on a new block of light wood.

“Thank you,” Geira replied, spooning up some of her stew, still warm and delicious. “Could you go get something for Tilda though? Thorin promised to send someone to fetch her for lunch, but I guess he forgot.”

“I promised Fíli I’d help him,” Kíli smiled, “I’ll take her down to the kitchens. Lunch was still being served when we left.”

“Thank you, nephew,” Geira smiled. Tilda looked up at Kíli, still clutching her doll and the small bird.

“I wanna stay!” she demanded, pouting at Geira, who chuckled.

“But you need food, Tilda,” she protested. “If you promise to ask someone to take you, you can come back in a few hours when I’ve had a nap and we’ll play some more?” Tilda tilted her head, considering the offer. Kíli tried not to laugh at the solemn nod she finally graced his aunt with.

“Come one then, Miss Tilda, let’s see if we can find the friendly cook, aye?” he said, holding out his hand to the little girl.

“There you are!” Bard exclaimed, sticking his head through the door. “Honestly, Thorin said this room was easy to find.”

“Da!” Tilda shrieked happily, throwing herself at him. “Auntie Geira telled me stories about Lusa and owls and princesses!” Bard caught her, smiling gently.

“Told you, Tilda,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Did you thank Lady Rhonith for looking after you?” Tilda nodded.

“Her name is Aunt Geira here, Da,” she explained solemnly, frowning at her father. Kíli smothered his smile. “King Thorin said so, and Kíli!”

“Only because she is related to them,” Legolas interjected, “I call her Rhonith.” Tilda seemed to consider this new information seriously, looking at the elleth in the bed before glancing at Kíli and Bard.

“But I don’t have an Auntie and Auntie Geira said it was okay to call her Auntie.” Tilda nodded decisively. Bard laughed.

“Truly, King Bard, it makes little difference. We had fun, didn’t we, Tilda?” Geira asked, smiling at the girl who nodded earnestly.

“Can I come back, Da?” she pleaded, turning big puppy eyes on her father.

“If you don’t bother Lady Rhonith, you may visit. But only if you get someone to bring you up here, no running away from your sister,” he added sternly. “Sigrid was very worried when she couldn’t find you this morning.”

“Sorry, Da,” Tilda whispered, leaning against his shoulder.

“Tilda was no trouble, King Bard, I was glad of the company.” Geira offered, softening the look on Bard’s face. The future King of Dale nodded.

“Very well, then. Tilda, say goodbye, then we’ll get some lunch and go for a walk.” With a nod of his head and a wave from Tilda, Bard turned, striding down the corridor. Kíli chuckled.

“I’ve brought my sketchbook – Prince Kíli!” Ori squeaked, pushing the door open, when he caught sight of the dark-haired archer. Kíli scowled.

“Will you stop it with the Prince-lark, Ori,” he asked, wincing at the plaintive tone of his voice. “Honestly, you’ve never called me prince before. Not even back in Ered Luin!” settling his crutches once more, Kíli barely heard Ori’s apology before he stormed out of the room as swiftly as the wooden poles could manage.

 

* * *

 

Ori was blushing wildly, staring open-mouthed after Kíli’s furious figure.

“That could have gone better, nadadith,” Geira muttered behind him. Ori winced slightly, turning back to face the bed.

“What am I doing?” he murmured, sinking down onto the bed.

“You’re trying to court your One, Ori,” Geira smirked. Ori looked up sharply.

“I don’t seem to be doing a good job, if all I manage is to make him angry and flee my presence,” he replied glumly, fingering one of the drawing pens he had brought.

“Would you like to be called Lord Companion Ori every time Kíli spoke to you?” Geira asked, a light smile playing across her lips. Ori frowned. “You’re trying to be respectful of Kíli’s status, but what you’re doing – in his mind – is pointing out that he is different from you in the eyes of those around; in _your_ eyes.”

“But he’s-” Ori began.

“Kíli was raised much like other Dwarrow in Ered Luin, Ori. He doesn’t _want_ to be above anyone, even if his bloodlines have suddenly made him a prince of the wealthiest kingdom in Middle-Earth. He is still _Kíli_.” Geira interrupted, reaching out to hold Ori’s hand gently, stilling his nervous fidgeting.

“He’s not fond of his title,” Legolas interjected, “I don’t think it was used much in your former home.”

“I don’t know how to talk to him!” Ori slumped in his chair. “I don’t even have much of an idea for my First Gift.” He sighed.

“Treat him like a friend would, don’t push him away. Smile at him, talk to him,” Geira offered sagely. “You’ve time yet to come up with a good First Gift, there’s no rush.”

“What would you make?” Ori asked.

“If I were you?” Geira replied thoughtfully. “Kíli isn’t big on literary works, it’s true, but he would probably like pictures, drawings of things that matter to him. You could paint, or sketch… his family? Erebor? The house he grew up in? Something that would have meaning to him, at least.” Ori nodded. Geira picked up her spoon once more, though her stew had gone cold. She sighed. “I miss roast,” she moaned. “In Lothlórien, I could have had roast duck with orange sauce… crisp apples…” Ori chuckled, grateful for the subject change. Legolas seemed amused, but kept silent.

“Food’s better than when we were on the Quest, at least. I miss Dori making rolls and filling out whole house with the smell of baking. And bacon. I miss bacon in the morning. There’s too much green food,” he pouted. “I don’t like green food.” Geira laughed.

“I did hear about your little party in Imladris,” she chuckled. “Poor Erestor. Though Kíli mistaking an ellon for an elleth would have been fun to see.”

“Who’s Erestor?” Ori asked, not particularly keen on considering Kíli’s odd fascination with elven maids – or not maids, as the case was.

“Erestor is Lord Elrond’s Steward, he handles the day-to-day running of the Last Homely House,” Geira said. “You did not meet him?”

“No, I think the only elf we were introduced to besides Lord Elrond was called Lindir,” Ori explained, thinking back to those days in the sunny valley that seemed so far away now considering all the had been through in the meantime.

“Lindir is the minstrel,” Geira said with a frown, “Lord Elrond’s personal song-writer.”

“I think I met him once,” Legolas added, “dark-haired fellow. He taught me a song about Dwarrow.”

“ _That’s_ where you learned that piece of garbage?!” Geira screeched, startling both males. Legolas scowled, staring down at his suddenly leg-less figure. He put his knife down with a small sigh.

“I thought you’d like it!” Legolas defended himself hotly. “It had a Dwarf on the parchment!”

“What are you talking about?” Ori wondered, feeling more than a little lost. Legolas appeared to be blushing.

“A song I learned when I was young – 800 or so,” he admitted quietly. “I sung it for Rhonith’s birthday once, thinking she’d like to hear a song about a Dwarf.” The elf visibly swallowed, eyeing the still-fuming elleth in the bed. “Suffice to say, Master Ori, she did not. Called me patronising, as I recall.” Among other things, but it had stuck in Legolas’ young mind as one of the first times he remembered Rhonith being truly angry.

“Oh, I’ll have _words_ with master Lindir the next time I see him.” Geira growled angrily, pushing away her bowl. “That condescending… I won’t even deign to call it a _song_!”

“What was it about?” Ori asked, fascinated and scared in equal measure by the dark expression on his Zarsthurunana’s face.

“A Ruby and a diamond and assassins who wanted one or the other though they belonged to a Lord of Elves.” Legolas said at the same time as Geira growled,

“My _mother_ …” Ori stared, belatedly realising that Legolas looked like someone who has just had a terrible realisation. “…and me.” Geira finished, staring straight ahead as though she was looking back through the years. Legolas gulped. “The Lord he picked a Ruby fine, a whim of thought his heart,” she quoted the words scathingly. Looking at Ori, she smiled grimly. “It’s an insult from end to other; I thought all the copies had been destroyed when Lirileth left Eregion. Until Legolas thought it was an appropriate gift for my Nameday.”

“You never said!” Legolas protested. “I was so proud of finding a song about Dwarrow,” he pouted. Geira chuckled.

“Atya nearly killed the scribe who wrote it for the celebrations of my parents’ fiftieth wedding day… you’re lucky you were my favourite even then, my incorrigible princeling,” she smiled, reaching out to pinch his arm. Ori laughed.

“ _Goheno nin, Rhonith_ ,” Legolas apologised softly, leaning into the gentle stroke of her fingers along his ear.

“At least you have a very controversial Family Song,” Ori teased, a surprisingly wicked grin on his face, “whereas the ‘Ri’s have one about mining for emeralds passed down from my grandmother, I think.” He finished, frowning lightly in thought. Geira’s humour restored slightly, she gave him a crooked smile.

“No, my Family Song is part of the Lay of Durin – several parts, actually, where I am specifically mentioned as Usakh – as well as some that were written about Doors of Durin and even some about the Three Rings of Power and the Guild of Jewellers in Ost-in-Edhil. There are a few others I have written over the years, but that travesty is certainly not among them, and I _will_ be making sure it’s written in very large letters just how insulting it is the next time I pass through Elrond’s Library.” Geira finished with an amount of unholy glee that was nearly frightening. “And you’d have the rights of the Song of Zantunalkhul too, from your mother’s line…” she continued, looking at Ori. “You could probably find them in the Library, though I’ve no idea what you might find for your father’s side.”

“I’ll look later,” Ori decided, fingering his pens again. “I actually came up here to draw Legolas.”

“For the Saga?” Geira asked with a proud smile. She yawned. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll have a short nap. Telling stories to Tilda was surprisingly exhaustive,” she admitted.

“We’ll be quiet,” Ori promised, gesturing for Legolas to vacate his chair as he pulled a small desk over, laying out his supplies meticulously. Geira gave them both a sleepy smile, but she drifted off soon after.

“Do you want me to simply stand here?” Legolas asked. He had been painted before, but that usually involved far more elaborate setups than Ori had brought, as well as props.

“At first, but I might like to get a quick sketch of how you move when you’re stabbing something with one of your daggers, like the spiders we met?” Ori explained. “I’m going to do a sketch of only your face first, and then I’ll do a full-body version later.” Legolas nodded, perching lightly on the foot-end of Rhonith’s bed as he sank into restful watching, while Ori began to draw, humming lightly as he worked.

 

When Rhonith woke, she did not dare speak at first. Ori was concentrating fiercely, while Legolas was holding a slightly precarious pose, showing off his balancing skills. What arrested her attention was not the artist’s rendition of his subject, however, but the subject himself. Legolas had lost his tunic at some point, giving her a view she had not seen since the last time she had spent summer in Mirkwood and they’d all gone for a swim in one of the small forest pools.

 

“Your musculature is so different from ours,” Ori mumbled, looking back and forth between his drawing and his model, “I may have to study the way Elves move more closely to do your people justice in my account.”

“Don’t expect most of my kin to act favourably to requests to disrobe for your art,” Legolas warned with a light laugh. His eyes darted over Rhonith’s face, but she was still asleep. He didn’t know what she’d say if she woke up and caught him being half-naked in her room; though he was fairly certain it would not be even close to the way part of his brain hoped she would. He blushed lightly, but Ori made no comment, all his focus on his own work.

 

* * *

 

 

“This is giving me a headache,” Fíli complained, rubbing his temples. He was feeling miserable. He had bounced off the door-frame on the way into the study and bumped his hip against the table with enough force that he expected bruises. He had knocked over one inkwell already, soaking an almost-finished draft of the trade agreement they’d been working on for the past two hours. Kíli made a sympathetic murmur. His own injury caused him some grief, of course, but once he was sat down no one could tell he was missing half a leg. Staring grumpily at the paper did not help his mounting headache and Fíli pushed the paper away with a groan.

“Do you think Ori likes me?” Kíli asked. Fíli looked up sharply.

“Why wouldn’t he? Did he say something?” he asked cautiously. He had seen no such evidence during their brief interaction at lunch; perhaps Kíli was simply nervous?

“He keeps calling me Prince Kíli,” Kíli grumbled. “I thought maybe he was mad at me for something; he’s never called me prince before.” Looking at his brother’s glum expression, Fíli carefully did not laugh; reaching out to pat Kíli’s shoulder, he searched for some nugget of brotherly wisdom he might impart, becoming more and more certain that Ori _had_ in fact been Kíli’s first kiss.

“You _are_ a Prince, though,” he tried, sighing when Kíli’s scowl only deepened. “You look like Uncle when you do that, you know,” he said, matter-of-factly; Kíli’s glower intensified. Fíli chuckled, ruffling his hair, “and I’m sure Ori likes you. He’s probably just as nervous as you are. Just tell him to use your name the next time he does it, maybe?” Fíli wondered at the fierce blush that spread across Kíli’s cheeks before his younger brother hid his face in his hands, hiding behind a curtain of dark hair – Fíli really needed to ensure they did _something_ about those tufts in the back, he reminded himself sternly – as he mumbled a disjointed account of screaming at his One. Fíli managed to keep a straight face – barely – making sympathetic sounds as he rubbed Kíli’s shoulder. How had he never realised that Kíli had so little experience with wooing? Even _Uncle Thorin_ was better at it, it would seem, and _he_ had been waiting for more than 100 years to marry _his_ One.

 

* * *

 

 

Nori was slinking along one of the hallways, heading up the mountain to visit his sister and offer to bring her down for dinner. There were no announcements planned for tonight, but he thought she might like to be surrounded by a few more people.

“Nori!” Fíli hissed, waving at him from the next side-corridor down. Nori cocked his head, raising a questioning eyebrow. What could the crown prince need him for?

“Fíli?” Nori asked, slipping quickly down the narrow hallway. “Something wrong?”

“Our brothers,” Fíli began awkwardly. Nori waited. He had a pretty good idea of the reactions Ori could expect from this new complication in their lives – though Thorin’s had been kinder than he’d expected – but he had yet to overhear Fíli even mentioning the possibility.

“Yes?” he drawled, studying Fíli while pretending to study his nimble fingers.

“We need to help them.” It was a statement, and one Nori had not seen coming. For a moment, he stared at Fíli, feeling speechless. “They’re too caught up in this courtship traditions thing,” Fíli elaborated. Nori remained silent. How was he getting dragged into sorting out _another_ of his siblings’ love life? “I don’t know about Ori, but Kíli is… not handling it well.”

“I did hear some shouting,” Nori mumbled, “but Ori was being a wee pillock. I think Geira sorted him out, however.” Fíli nodded.

“Yes, and I think I managed to get Kíli to go and apologise… but we need to let them have _some_ time together… _together._ ” Fíli exclaimed. Nori nodded slowly. “No matter that Uncle would prefer they didn’t start courting just yet,” Fíli continued, “we can’t let either one of them fall to pieces like this.”

“I can run interference with Dori,” he replied, smirking. It would be fun to see Ori get a little sneakier. After five years without contact, his little brother had managed to hide his mischievous streak beneath Dori’s influence. Nori thought it might just take someone like Kíli to find it. “She’s too busy with Geira and planning the clothes for the coronation – and the wedding – to spend as much time hovering over Ori… you should see if you can get Kíli assigned a few tasks in the Library too,” he suggested, “research or simply helping copy the most damaged books. Ori was moaning that we’re about to lose a large part of what heritage we have left because the oldest section was the one most damaged by Smaug’s occupation. He’d be happy to have help.”

“Once the Elves and Dáin leave, there won’t be much for me and Kíli to do besides having lessons in ruling,” Fíli commented thoughtfully, “and obviously, if Ori says the Library needs help, who better than the dwarf whose injuries make him unfit for rebuilding?” Nori smirked. Sometimes, he really did appreciate the brain that lived beneath all that golden hair.

“You remind me of your sigin’amad, Fíli,” Nori declared. “In a good way,” he winked, scampering off before Fíli could come up with a witty rejoinder.

 

* * *

 

 

“Can I talk to you? Alone?” Kíli asked, looking a little sullen. Ori looked down at his unfinished dinner, then snuck a glance around the room for Dori. Nori winked at him, engaging their sister in a debate of some fabric he’d allegedly found somewhere. Ori hid a smirk. It was good to have Nori back with them; he was always good for a distraction.

“Sure,” Ori smiled, liking the way Kíli’s answering smile lit up his face.

Finding an abandoned corridor was simple. Kíli was leaning against the wall opposite Ori, looking oddly hesitant to speak.

It seemed Kíli wasn’t going to open his mouth. Not that Ori minded simply staring at him, wondering if the dark hair was as soft as it looked, the wild riotous of curls tempting his fingers. “What did you-” Ori began, when

“I’m sorry!” Kíli blurted loudly, interrupting the question. “Err…” he blushed light, scuffing his heel against the wall, “for shouting… earlier.”

“I’m sorry too,” Ori found himself saying, looking at Kíli’s shoulder and blushing deeply. “If-If you want me to, I’ll call you Kíli,” he offered, unprepared for the smile that split Kíli’s face in his peripheral vision. It drew his gaze, like a magnet, until he was staring at those lips, wondering if they would be as soft as when he had accidentally touched them that afternoon in the Library. He blushed deeper. He’d never apologised for attacking the archer like that, either. “I’m sorry I kissed you!” he exclaimed, horrified when Kíli’s smile vanished in an instant. “I mean…” Ori scrambled, wishing he was better at this, “I’m sorry I kissed you without… er… permission…” he trailed off awkwardly.

 

Kíli was a spontaneous Dwarf, he’d always known it. He was the egregious prince, the one who drew the eye and the stares while Fíli got the calm overview of the opponent. Right now, however, there was no Fíli – and no opponent aside from Kíli’s own cowardice. Not stopping to think about it, Kíli moved – swifter than he had thought possible – nearly tripping himself with the blasted crutches and ended up leaning against Ori and the wall, trapping the smaller dwarf with his arms on either side of his head.

“Are you?” he whispered; a challenge. Ori’s eyes widened. Kíli licked his lower lip, wondering whether Ori would take the implied permission. Ori stared up at him, the soft brown colour of his eyes pulling Kíli in closer.

“Yes…” Ori whispered, thought it sounded like a question. The freckles across his nose were unbearably distracting, Kíli thought, closing his eyes for a moment. His brief burst of reckless courage was going to fade soon, he knew. He dipped his head slowly, almost unprepared for the first touch of Ori’s lips against his own. Kíli’s eyes flew open. Ori’s arms, still trapped between them, snaked up around his shoulders and – this was _easy!_ Kíli thought wildly, wanting to laugh but also never wanting to stop kissing Ori. Cupping the scribes jaw in one hand, Kíli distantly registered the sound of his crutch clattering against the floor. Ori startled lightly, stiffening for a moment, but then he made a soft sound against Kíli’s lips, his fingers tangling in Kíli’s hair to pull him down closer.

“Maker…” Kíli whispered, when he finally broke away for a gasp of air. His cheeks were on fire, but he managed to keep eye contact with Ori who slowly blinked his eyes open, a soft smile on his face.

“ _Kíli_ …” he whispered, pulling him back down. Kíli went willingly, wondering how his name could sound so _good_ and wanting to taste it straight from Ori’s lips. Licking across the scribe’s lower lip, he was a little surprised when Ori opened his mouth, sucking Kíli’s tongue in, playing his own alongside it in a way that was making Kíli’s breeches uncomfortably tight. Pulling back slightly, his uncle’s warnings ringing in the back of his mind, Kíli leaned his forehead heavily against the wall above Ori’s shoulder.

“Mahal,” he moaned. Ori shivered against him, and that was patently _unfair_ , Kíli thought, when he realised that the scribe was just as aroused as he was. How were they ever supposed to wait?

“Kíli,” Ori groaned, leaning into his shoulder. “Stop talking.”

“Why?” Kíli asked, feeling hurt. Ori shivered again, a slight moan escaping him.

“Because you’re- _we’re_ not ready for this,” Ori whispered, “and I…” Kíli turned his head, nipping at Ori’s ear for no other reason than it seemed something to do. He was unprepared for the strength of Ori’s grip on his hair to tighten as the scribe let out a louder moan, muffled by Kíli’s shoulder.

“Oh,” Kíli breathed, enjoying the way his voice made Ori shiver. “You _like_ it.” If his face hadn’t been pressed against cool green stone, Kíli would have blushed more vividly than ever before when a new reckless thought entered his head. Lowering his voice, he breathed against Ori’s sensitive ear, “Do you think I could talk you to a finish?” Pressing his thigh against Ori’s quite obvious erection, Kíli had to smother a moan of his own. This was more than he had expected, possibly more than he was prepared for, but it felt so _good_. He thrust lightly, fighting the desire to simply follow his body’s needs.

“Not tonight,” Ori whispered, and before Kíli had any idea what was happening, his back was against the wall. Ori licked his lips, the glint in his eyes showing his family ties to Nori in a way Kíli had never seen before. He smiled. Ori bent to pick up the fallen crutch, handing it over wordlessly.

“Kiss me again?” Kíli asked, adding a reckless, “you owe me one now.” When Ori laughed he grinned, pleased with the sound.

“I do, aye?” Ori smirked, pretending to consider it before leaning in, standing on tip-toes to press his lips softly against Kíli’s. “Come on then, Kíli. Dinner is waiting.” Kíli smiled, feeling like he was floating along on his crutches as Ori led them back to the Food Hall.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’d say step one was successful, **ruydayud**[291],” Nori muttered, passing by Fíli’s chair on his way to strike up a conversation with Bofur. Fíli looked up, just in time to catch the combination of a blissful and tormented look on Kíli’s face as he followed Ori to a pair of free seats, falling into conversation with Geira while Ori monopolized Legolas. Fíli smiled. He didn’t think anyone else saw the way their legs remained tightly pressed together throughout the meal. Step one did indeed look successful.

 

 

 

 

[289] You are the mithril of my heart. Will you marry me?

[290] I love you, my Uthran. Yes, I will marry you, my love.

[291] Heir - nickname


	61. The Road and the Mountains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The return of the Fellowship and Glóin's travails.

The raven’s screech broke the quietness of the morning; a light layer of snow had fallen during the night and all sounds seemed muffled as the camp was broken. They were about a day’s journey from Bree, Dís thought, where she hoped they could find space in the inn or bed down in someone’s barn for a night. Camping in snow was not out of character for her hardy kin, but that did not mean they enjoyed it – and everyone would welcome a hearty meal they did not have to catch first, she knew, which Dís would be sponsoring as a way of boosting morale.

“Dís!” the bird called, with her brother’s voice, which would never _not_ be startling, Dís thought, raising her arm to give the bird a perch on which to land. “Letter for Dís,” it said, hopping along her leather glove, lined with rabbit fur. Kíli had made them for her last Yule, and the gloves were almost sinfully soft and warm.

“I am Dís,” Dís replied, amused by the preening raven on her forearm. It was obviously proud to have found her.

“Skrikja carries letter for Dís,” it repeated, showing her the scroll tube tied to its leg. Ravens were large, and Erebor’s Ravens among the largest, but Dís was still impressed that the bird had been able to carry the tube, containing several pages of paper with Thorin’s neatest Cirth imprinted on both sides.

 

_Dearest sister,_

_I sit here, in adad’s old study, and try to pen the words I must tell you, decide the order in which I must say them._

_Perhaps I will begin with the most pressing tidings to an amad’s heart; news of her sons. Yes, I know you will scold me for not having begun my letter by stating the following in large capitals across the page…_

_Fíli and Kíli are alive. So are the rest of the Company, bar a few injuries which have been tended. Did you read the words, sister, trace them over and over to make yourself believe? I will repeat it: Fíli and Kíli are alive. ALIVE, sister, I swear to you._

_There has been a Battle, larger than I had ever dreamed after we defeated the dragon and burned his corpse. Azog was hunting us, nearly from the beginning of our journey, and his son Bolg – an equally pale and ugly specimen – harried our footsteps at every turn._

_We have won Erebor._

_The Elves, with whom I have managed to restore diplomatic relations and a tenuous prospect of an alliance, came to our aid. Yes, I had help, Little Bird – I know you would never believe me capable of such a diplomatic feat on my own – from the Elvenking’s daughter, Rhonith, whom we met by accident in the Misty Mountains. Together with a gangbuh led by Cousin Dáin, we have defeated the hordes of Orcs that Azog sent against us, the vile usurpers of Gundabad and Khazad-dûm._

_Though our combined losses were great, we stood victorious; finally, the scum that slew our grandfather has been dealt with._

_Our losses:_

_Kíli has lost part of his leg due to an evil poison, taken off just below the knee, by a blade wielded by Dwalin. We owe Thranduil his life, sister, a debt I can never repay. He has also lost a large portion of his hair, which he cut off in battle to come to the aid of the Scribe, Ori, the third son of our old friend Natfári. Kíli is not fond of his crutches, and though it will take time to make, one of Dáin’s engineers has an idea for a new type of prosthetic that should enable him to move freely._

_Fíli has lost an eye, but through the intervention of Rhonith, he survived a fall I had believed killed him. He also broke a leg and suffered other contusions, but Óin says that he will be allowed to walk unaided by the end of two weeks._

_For the death of Azog, I have paid my left arm; to me, it is a fair price, though I am told it was only through the skill of the Elven healers I did not lose my life. Azog was shot by Princess Rhonith, and his head cut off by Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm; he is the youngest son of Thranduil._

_Glóin came through unscathed bar a few scratches, as did Dwalin. Óin is busy grumbling about all of us, so I think it is safe to say that he is fit as a fiddle._

_Bofur lost his hat to the dragon, but found another in some long-lost home in Erebor. He broke his leg during a party, but Óin says the break is uncomplicated and will mend soon._

_Bifur is as he has been every day since his run-in with that merchant, and Erebor has accepted him as her new Cantor. He has even gained an apprentice in Flóki, son of Loni, a Singer from the Iron Hills._

_Bombur misses his family greatly. He stepped into a hole during the battle and twisted his ankle rather badly, but it should mend without lasting harm._

_Balin is as canny as always, and bade me tell you he is busy keeping his promise to you._

_Dori, I feel, will be a great boon in the coming time, her knowledge of our ancient traditions and ceremonies far outstrip my own. She sustained a head injury during the battle and suffered a mild concussion, but she is perfectly fine now, I promise._

_Ori was the one we feared for the most – aside from Kíli’s poisoned wound – as he took a mace to the chest in Kíli’s defence, which broke most of his ribs. His survival, too, we owe to the Elves and their healers. I wish now that adad had not disdained them so after Aznulbizar, who knows how many we could have saved with their aid? Young Ori has begun the monumental task of sorting the Library, with the capable aid of Master Baggins, the Hobbit of whom I told you in my letter from Rivendell._

_Nori dislocated his knee during the Battle, but he has already begun his work here anew, and his results are impeccable as ever._

_In response to your letter, Fíli has asked me to ask you to bring Athalrún and her family with you with all haste, as Bombur is anxious for them to arrive safely._

_For cousin Vár, send word that her husband is riding home as swiftly as elven mounts and escorts can get him; by the time this letter reaches you, he will be somewhere in the Misty Mountains, if not in Rivendell._

_Speaking of Rivendell, we have sent word to Lord Elrond there to expect you, along with suitable payments for the supplies he granted us during our journey and whatever you may need to purchase from the Elves. Depending on the time of year when you get there, they may also be able to lead you safely through the Mountains, a task that is not without peril, though the danger will have lessened since our victory._

_With this list of my most important news, here comes the tale of our lives since I sent my letter to you from Rivendell. I will attempt to be concise, and honest, though you may see how it is difficult for me to do so, to pen the words I need you to know. So much has happened, Dís, and I sorely miss your counsel._

_…_

_Your brother, Thorin_

 

The more she read of Thorin’s heart-breaking confession, the sadder Dís felt, wishing she could wrap her arms around him and tell him that things would work out, _together_ they would work things out and make everything right. She noted Thorin’s glaring lack of anecdotes about Dwalin – often his favourite subject in any letter to her, and the topic of at least a quarter of the letter he had sent from Rivendell, with her two rascals taking up only slightly more ink and paper, and the rest filled with stories from the road, descriptions of the Hobbit’s smial and the flimsy architecture of Rivendell and its haughty inhabitants. She could read what Thorin did not explicitly state, however, knew her brother better than anyone alive – perhaps except for Dwalin, though they knew Thorin in different ways – and she felt distinctly worried for her youngest son’s mental well-being, as well as her brother-in-law’s distance from her fool of a brother. The more she read, the more Dís worried that something was terribly wrong in her small family, which seemed to be tearing itself apart at the seams.

The addition of an _Elf_ to that family was news she had to read twice, thinking the information a trick of her eyes. Apparently this Rhonith – and _why_ had Thorin chosen to trust someone who called Thranduil father? – was related to them; related to their _Amad_ , Mahal’s beard! Dís shook her head in disbelief. Thorin, however, did not expound terribly on the topic, which made his sister want to shake him.

Now, more than ever, she felt a gnawing need to be in Erebor; to be where she was most needed, keeping her small family whole and hale.

 

“Vár,” Dís called, when she looked up from her letter. She hadn’t noticed but the whole camp had been packed up while she was busy reading, and everyone was ready to get back on the road now.

“It had better be good news, cousin,” Vár threatened, though Dís knew it was simply bluster to cover her abject fear. She smiled, giving Vár a gentle squeeze.

“Thorin writes that your message made Glóin faint into his morning porridge and spend an hour getting it out of his beard,” Dís told her with a wink. Vár burst out laughing, while little Gimli stared at the letter hungrily.

“Adad knows about the baby?” he asked quietly.

“Only that your Amad was carrying a pebble. Your cousin Thorin writes that the Prince of the Elves offered Glóin an escort as far as Rivendell. He is coming to meet us!” Dís laughed when Gimli’s face cracked in a wide smile, watching fondly as the young dwarf immediately ran off to tell Bolbur his happy news.

“We’ll be setting course for Rivendell, then, my Lady?” Nýr asked with a light frown. Dís nodded.

“My son has bartered for supplies and shelter from the elves there for us… it would be impolite of us not to appear, don’t you think?” she asked with a sharp smirk. Nyr returned the expression gamely. With a nod, the caravan leader called for the train of wagons to begin moving on, heading to Bree where they would take the Great East Road and head for Rivendell.

 

“Athalrún!” Dís called next, reporting the state of the blacksmith’s kinsmen to the brood of dwarflings that followed in their mother’s wake when the dam came running. Athalrún smiled.

“Well, you would think our menfolk thought us helpless and dim, if they think you’d need reminding or that I’d be satisfied by waiting in Ered Luin!” she laughed, wrapping her arms around Dís in a tight hug to hide the relieved tears that sprung to her eyes. Dís patted her shoulder, weeping a few of her own.

“When are we going to reach Erebor?” Fjelarún asked, staring up at Dís, who ruffled her red hair with a smile.

“A few months, little one,” she promised, “and then your adad is going to make a big cake to celebrate, I’m sure!” The promise elicited great cheer among the children, unfortunately waking little Várdís from her nap, something the tiniest lady of Durin’s Folk proclaimed her displeasure with in loud and shrill tones until her amad silenced her with a milk-heavy breast to suckle.

 

* * *

 

 

Crossing the Misty Mountains had been horrid enough the first time, Glóin had thought. Even if he discounted their brief stint as Goblin prisoners, the Thunder Battle of the Stone Giants and the treacherous paths had not made him at all fond of the idea of going back through the High Pass. Arastor and Tuilinthel, however, had calmly informed him that it was the only way to go, the lower passes having been blocked by an avalanche some weeks prior. They had sent their mounts home when they reached the small river-crossing, walking through the foothills. The elks might have gotten through the snow faster, but Arastor had heard warg howls on the wind and decided they were better off sending the elks back to the forest where they could hide from predators with more ease than letting them walk back through the snowy riverlands.

They had spent the better part of three days walking along the foothills before they had begun making their way up to the pass, which turned out to be at least as slow as going through the blinding rain of Glóin’s first trek. He was beginning to hate snow – in particular, the combination of heavy snow, his own armour and mail and the light-footed elves who could walk _on top_ of the snow, no matter how heavy their gear. He had been given something Tuilinthel had called snow shoes, which looked more like a large half-circle made of wood and strung with some sort of springy netting that she had made him tie to his boots. Glóin had scowled at the contraption at first, but he had had to admit that the ‘snow shoes’ _did_ help him walk through the whiteness. With the large contraptions tied to his normal boots, he only sank a few inches into the snow, rather than having to wade through it waist-deep.

 

* * *

 

 

Bree was nothing special, Dís found, and only her silver coins bought them enough space to sleep for a night. Dis herself shared a room with Vár and Athalrún, who took the small bed along with the two pebbles while the rest of them spread their bedrolls on the floor. When the Dwarflings had fallen asleep, Athalrún joined the rest of the party in the inn’s taproom, spending a few hours telling stories, which earned her a few coppers.

“Master Oaks?” a woman called. Dís turned, a slight frown on her face. She did not recognise the voice, but Thorin’s stories meant it could have been only one person who called him by that name.

“My brother, Mistress Butterbur,” she said, studying the woman who was among the few Men Thorin felt less than loathing for in this town.

“Oh!” Mistress Butterbur cried, a light blush staining her cheeks. “My apologies, Master… but you look very much alike.”

“Oaks is fine, Mistress Butterbur. My brother has told me a few stories about you and your copper pots.” Dís chuckled. The human seemed a little puzzled. “How may I be of service?” Dís had not suffered the same indignities as Thorin – nor did she have all of his pride – and found it easier to be kind to those who were not of her people.

“Yes,” she sighed, “I had hoped that I could persuade someone to mend them; your brother is always kind enough to do so, and his work seems to hold better than when I take them to Mister Farris.”

“My brother is very skilled,” Dís agreed, “though I have in my party a few proper blacksmiths I could persuade to lend you a hand.”

“You could?” Mistress Butterbur enthused, clapping her hands.

“Aye,” Dís smirked. “Gimli! Bolbur!” she called, aiming her voice in the direction of the stairs where – sure enough – the red hair of Gimli and the darker curls of Bolbur rose above the banister, knowing they’d been caught. “Get down here you two.” Dís said sternly.

“Yes, Uncle,” Gimli sighed, trudging down the stairs with a look of doom on his face. His mother wouldn’t have wanted him in the increasingly rowdy taproom, and both Gimli and Dís knew it. It wasn’t quite late enough for either young dwarf to be tired, however, and curiosity is a terrible mistress, which Dís was well aware of, having raised Fíli and Kíli both.

“These are my nephews, Gimli and Bolbur, Mistress Butterbur. They’ll see to your pots.” Dís proclaimed, her large hands landing on Gimli’s shoulders. The young dwarf drew in a breath of mingled surprise and relief. If Dís gave them a task, Vár and Athalrún couldn’t claim they’d been off doing mischief. Even if he had to do smithing, it was a better deal than facing his amad’s temper and Gimli knew it.

“What’s the Mistress need us to do?” Bolbur asked, as soft-spoken as his amad unless truly riled.

“I’ve a few copper pots and pans with dents in need straightening,” Butterbur replied.

“And the price for the work” Gimli asked, eyeing her shrewdly.

“You can haggle that as you like, Gimli,” Dís said, “but keep it fair, aye?” Gimli nodded, permission and warning both received.

“Your Uncle Oaks often found a good meal and a bath his price for such work,” Butterbur proposed, but Gimli cut across whatever Bolbur was about to say that looked like acceptance of terms. They’d already had a meal and a wash, which meant the lure of both was far less than it had been that morning, for instance.

“Aye, and well he might, for he travelled far and often with only the supplies he could carry,” Gimli countered thoughtfully. A glint in Butterbur’s eyes told him she knew this game. “Perhaps the Mistress might be kind enough to see to our breakfast instead? We’ve yet many miles to go, after all.”

“I could be persuaded to see my way to putting aside a few loaves of cook’s bread and some eggs in the morning,” she remarked. Gimli smiled.

“Oh, aye, and that’d be fair and all, but we are in somewhat of a hurry to leave in the morning, and we’d need to be up well into the night…” he trailed off suggestively. Dís hid a smile in her beard.

“Well, but cook makes bacon in the morning,” Butterbur said. Bolbur elbowed Gimli, who nodded slowly.

“Aye, seems to me that a pair of strong young dwarrow such as myself and Bolbur here could do with some bacon in the mornings,” he said philosophically. “Lead the way to the pots, Mistress, we’ll get started right away,” he added, holding out his hand for them to shake on it. Mistress Butterbur smiled, and the bargain was struck.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why were Gimli and Bolbur so tired this morning?” Vár asked, when they had returned to their journey and gone a few miles down the Great East Road towards the Chetwood. Dís chuckled.

“Your son’ll be a fine haggler one day, cousin. They were mending some pots the innkeeper’s wife tends to use to break up her brawls. Thorin usually found a stack of them when he came through here.” Dís had seen them return too, tired but with a glimmer of pride in their eyes. This morning’s generous breakfast – several loaves of bread for each of them, wrapped in cloth for the journey and a small basket containing six eggs, a small crock of honey as well as a stack of bacon sandwiches they could eat as they walked – had been shared with Bolbur’s siblings once they’d started to walk down the road. Of course, everyone had partaken of the morning meal at the inn, so Gimli’s and Bolbur’s spoils were simply an extra treat when it came time for lunch. Vár laughed.

“Aye, he’s inherited his adad’s gift of the gab, wee Gimli has,” she said, smiling proudly at her redhaired son, who was currently carrying wee Borkur on his shoulders while Bolbur had accepted Fjelarún’s small weight on his own. “It’s good to see him make a new friend,” she whispered, squeezing Dís’ hand. The Princess nodded.

 

That night, they camped by the road skirting the Chetwood. They’d made it about 8 miles, which was a bit slow in Dís’ opinion, but they’d had a late morning in Bree. She hoped to reach ‘The Forsaken Inn’ for their evening meal next day, which was another 9 or so miles; it was the last inn along the Great East Road, and she wished to restock as many supplies as they would need to reach Rivendell. They had purchased some goods in Bree, of course, and the cold weather kept it from spoiling, but fifty Dwarrow – even on travel rations – ate a fair amount every day, and none of the ones who had come along had Kíli’s uncanny luck with hunting, she knew. Game was scarcer in winter, of course, though they had bagged a few pheasants on the other side of Bree, which Mistress Butterbur had added to their evening meal at the inn in return for the plucked feathers.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After little more than 4 days of snow-blindness and hard hiking, they had finally reached less snow-covered ground. The two Elves looked almost as tired as Glóin felt, but they kept pressing on, kept walking until the dark had fallen and it became too dangerous to keep going. Arastor had managed to find a cave – Glóin had checked it several times for tampering; he didn’t want to risk another visit to Goblin Town, even if it was probably mostly empty considering how many Goblins had been killed in the Battle of Five Armies. Lighting the last of their cumbersomely carried firewood, Glóin felt the heat sinking into his bones. Arastor had built a chest-high wall of snow across the mouth of the cave, which prevented the harsh wind from reaching them in the shallow cavern space.

 

* * *

 

 

“Skrikja?” Dís called. The large raven who had taken to perching on top of her wagon flew down to land on her arm.

“Skrikja service,” it croaked. Dís smiled.

“If the weather holds, we are a little less than a month’s travel from Rivendell. Would you fly ahead and tell them Princess Dís is arriving, along with fifty of her kin, as invited by my son?” she asked, stroking Skrikja’s neck feathers. She was growing quite fond of the large bird, who preened at her touch.

“Skrikja flies to Imladris,” he cawed, “speaks to Elveses.” With a final caw, Skrikja leapt into the wind, taking off towards the east and soon the black bird was little more than a speck in the distance. They had camped due south of the Midgewater Marshes – Nýr revealed that it was a far pleasanter road in winter, as the midges for whom the marshes were named only swarmed in springtime and summer – and they still had more than 200 miles to go before reaching Rivendell. Dís had some hope that her message would elicit a few asked-for guides, as she was not familiar with the roads leading to the fabled Homely House, nor were Nýr and Ginnar.

 

* * *

 

 

Seeing the arches of Rivendell, for some reason not covered in snow, was nearly pleasant, Glóin thought, dreaming of a hot meal. He’d even eat the bloody greens, as long as they fed him something that _wasn’t_ bloody _lembas_!

“Welcome to Imladris, Master Glóin, Master Arastor, and lady Tuilinthel,” Lord Elrond said, when the three weary travellers reached the entrance to Rivendell. “We had news of your coming.”

“ _Le fêl, Elrond Hir Imladris_ ,” Tuilinthel replied with a light bow.

“Erestor has made rooms ready for you,” Elrond promised, “but you might wish to partake in the midday meal before resting?” Glóin smiled, hoping for venison as succulent as the meat offered by the Elvenking of Mirkwood.

 

* * *

 

Looking at the small table – he’d been invited to sit with Lord Elrond and his family, apparently, consisting of twin elves and a small human boy for some reason – Glóin felt disappointed. The meal was reasonably tasty, he reckoned; some kind of stew with fluffy rolls, but surely not enough to fill a Dwarf-stomach that had been fed mostly with lembas bread since leaving Thranduil’s halls.

“It pleases me that my fears for your journey proved surmountable,” Elrond said kindly, his bowl nearly full when both Glóin and the wee lad had nearly finished theirs. The Elf waved, summoning someone with a large pot and a ladle to refill both bowls.

“But not unfounded, perhaps,” Gloing replied shrewdly, nodding his thanks at the serving maid.

“No, not unfounded,” Elrond agreed. “Will it take you long to rebuild Erebor’s splendour?”

“A lifetime,” Glóin replied; the thought made him happy. One of the twins looked puzzled by his wide smile.

“Surely you exaggerate, Lord Glóin,” the other one chuckled.

“Of course not!” Glóin blustered. “Why, first we’ve to secure the halls remain stable – dragons are not light! – and we have sworn to rebuild Dale also. Then comes the task of making Erebor beautiful; surpassing what the hands of our forebears wrought, bringing the glory back to the Halls of the Stone Mother. We will repair and rebuild and Erebor’s glory will shine like a beacon of the North!” Glóin exclaimed. “I invite you to visit in… oh, a century, perhaps, to see the wonders that will have been created where now we face rubble and scars. The Dragon left his mark on Erebor in more than one way.”

“There was a Dragon?” the young lad asked, Glóin was hardly familiar with the aging of Men, but the boy was not an Elf – no pointy ears poking through his dark hair – and the lad looked little more than a wee child.

“Oh, aye,” he said, recognizing the rapt look on the child’s face from his own son. Glóin’s eyes glittered, missing his small – but by now possibly expanded? – family fiercely. “A monstrous large beast. We called him Smaug, and he stole our land long ago. So… we went to take it back.” With that, he launched into a fierce – and rather bloody – account of the Company’s battle with Smaug, gleefully soaking up the attention of his listeners and almost forgetting to eat his third bowl of stew. When Smaug had been thoroughly disposed of – including using the tableware as stand-ins for assorted architecture or combatants – Glóin launched into an explanation of the Battle of Five Armies, which ended up being rather more accurate after Elrond had Lindir fetch a map of the region from the Library and Glóin could use it to outline the movements and events as they unfolded. He enjoyed the way the wee lad gasped and laughed, staring at him in awe as he told them about Thorin’s heroic charge and the events at Ravenhill made several elves who had gathered in silence around the table cry out in horror when Glóin dramatically told the story of Kíli’s last stand and their elven aunt shooting Azog to save Thorin’s life only to nearly perish herself. The sound made Glóin look up, for the first time noticing his increased audience.

“She’s our friend, Master Glóin,” one of the twin sons of Elrond explained. Glóin thought his name was Ellahir, but it might be the other way around. “I don’t like the thought of her injured so seriously.”

“Elladan, I’m certain Lady Ilsamirë was fine in the end,” Lord Elrond chided, “let our guest finish his story.” The younger elf subsided, but Glóin could see that it took effort. In an attempt to appease the members of his audience, Glóin skated rather quickly past the dwarf-related parts of the aftermath, though several loud exclamations of dismay followed his mentioning of the poison identified as Death Eater. When he reached the part of the story where Geira lost her memory, Lord Elrond seemed slightly paler.

“See, Ada, she _wasn’t_ fine!” his son shouted, gesturing at Glóin.

“I did not consider the prophecy at all,” Elrond mumbled, mostly to himself, it seemed, ignoring his offspring’s anger. “For so long we considered it no more than an empty threat…”

“Well, it wasnae empty,” Glóin said, “but Aunt Geira is tougher than you think…” he claimed, launching into the story of how the stone – edited to leave out mentions of any Deep Lore, of course, his audience was a bunch of Elves, after all – had returned Geira’s memories, even if it had claimed her physical strength to do so. The angry twin sighed in relief at the revelation that Geira would be fine, while his less boisterous brother leaned back against his chair, holding the small boy who’d fallen asleep at some point and stroking his hair.

 

* * *

 

Glóin had been convinced to remain a day in Rivendell, even if he hadn’t agreed with Lord Elrond’s ideas about needing rest after his trek across the mountain. The Elf had promised him a pony, however, which turned out to be Kíli’s mount, recovered by the Elves and brought to Rivendell along with Bifur’s, Thorin’s, Balin’s, and Fíli’s ponies. The rest had either run too far away, been eaten by wildlife or wargs, or taken in by whoever found them, Glóin assumed, which was only fair. He had also been granted a measure of supplies – more lembas, Glóin lamented silently – but also dried meat as well as some hard cheese and a few perishables for the first days of travel.

Eager though he was to get home, Glóin could not fault the hospitality of his host – even if this time he had brought a small pouch of clear, finely cut sapphires from Thorin to repay the kindness the elf had shown them after the Troll-debacle. The gems had been presented and accepted with all the ceremony of an envoy to a foreign lord – Glóin had a streak of showmanship a mile wide – though Elrond had almost immediately decided to send the gems back to Erebor to be delivered to Ilsamirë along with a commission for turning them into a necklace for his daughter, Arwen, who was staying with her grandmother.

 

* * *

 

On the morning of Glóin’s intended departure, he was sharing the morning meal with Elrond’s family once more when a large raven flew into the airy courtyard.

“Skrikja!” Glóin recognised the bird that had played at being Thorin while the King crafted his letter to his sister.

“Skrikja sees Glóin,” the bird replied. “Skrikja seeks Lord Elrond?” It was unnerving how it could change voices mid-sentence, shifting to Dís’ low alto as he spoke the name.

“I am Elrond, Lord of Imladris,” Elrond rose from his chair, but Skrikja landed on the table instead of following him back to his study as the Elf had probably expected, Glóin thought. From another table, Arastor looked up sharply. He and Tuilinthel had been offered to stay a while – the two were surprisingly popular among Lord Elrond’s people it seemed.

“Skrikja has message from Dís, Princess of Erebor and Lady of Durin’s Line,” Skrikja croaked.

“From Princess Dís?” Glóin wondered. The Raven had left the evening before he had; had it really had time to fly all the way to Ered Luin and halfway back again in the time it had taken him to get here?

“What is your message?” Elrond asked Skrikja. “I received word from King Thorin to expect Princess Dís along with the first re-settlers come spring,” he explained in an aside to Glóin.

“Lord Elrond, my people are currently camped due south of the Midgewater Marshes and would appreciate a guide meeting them at the Last Bridge, which we should reach 15-18 days from today, if weather and road permits. I expect we will arrive no later than January 14th. I have received word from my brother that you are expecting us; a total of 59 Dwarrow and fifteen wagons.” Skrikja bowed to the Elf, who seemed slightly speechless. The bird then hopped along the table, tilting its head as it looked at Glóin. “Cousin Glóin, I hope this raven finds you well. I have brought Vár, Gimli, and your new pebble along with me, for pressing reasons we will divulge when next we meet. Hopefully, Skrikja will be able to find you. Otherwise, I suppose I will see you on the East Road somewhere.” Hearing Dís’ voice from the raven’s beak was only slightly less unsettling than her message. He breathed a sigh of relief at the knowledge that Vár was strong enough to travel – for a moment he had feared Skrikja would tell him the birth had claimed her life as Gimli’s almost did 66 years before – though he couldn’t begin to guess at a reason pressing enough that Vár would dare to travel with such a young pebble. Worried, Glóin quickly counted the days in his head. If he set off at a good clip, he could catch the caravan in five days or less, reuniting with his family months before expected.

“Erestor,” Lord Elrond called, quickly relaying the news of the impending visit to his capable steward.

“I should get going,” Glóin stated, rising from his meal with a final bite of something leafy he only ate because it wasn’t lembas – which was tasty, but he had another two months at least of the way bread to look forward to, depending on when the caravan could cross the Misty Mountains. Glóin didn’t think 15 wagons would be capable of crossing the deep layer of snow – chest high on a Dwarf – that he and his two intrepid guides had traversed to reach Rivendell. The convoy might very well have to wait for spring thaw once it reached Rivendell, he feared, and wondered if Elrond would be capable of feeding all of them for that long.

“Arastor and I will go with you,” Tuilinthel said, rising from her seat in the middle of one of the twins telling a raucous story. The surrounding Elves stared at her. Her brother rose silently, nodding to Lord Elrond.

“ _Le fêl, Elrond hir Imladris_ ,” he murmured, turning on his heel and striding off. Glóin stared.

“Why?” he asked, slightly confused by Tuilinthel’s… he couldn’t really call it an _offer_ so much as a foregone conclusion.

“Our commander said protect and guide. Until the new year, we have no orders to return, to remake the unit torn by the orcs. So, we will obey the command we were given, to guide you and yours through Elven lands.” Glóin didn’t really know what to say to that.

 

Less than an hour later, Glóin found himself on Topaz, while Arastor and Tuilinthel had been granted the use of a pair of Elven horses, one bay and one grey. Skrikja had been offered a perch to rest on, but then he would be flying back to Erebor.


	62. Finery and Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Farewells and Feasts, Kíli's epic flirting skills, and Thorin wants to play hookie.

“Would you find the green dress for me, Dori?” Rhonith asked, sitting by the mirror in her room. Dori had worked magic with her hair, she was sure; it was braided artistically in a way that was uniquely Dwarven, but also showing off the delicate points of her ears. “You do have a gift with braids, Dori, thank you,” she smiled, catching Dori’s pleased expression in the mirror.

The green dress Dori pulled from the wardrobe was similar to the gown she had worn in Thranduil’s Halls to meet King Bard, only the decorations were made in Dwarven style; multitudes of tiny silver stitches in angular geometric patterns and small emeralds mined in Erebor centuries earlier covered the bodice, the full skirt sewn with even more gems and silver in the style of the day. Compared to the dress she had worn to Frís’ wedding, it was positively simple – compared to anything Dori had ever seen on Princess Dís, it was extravagant to the point of ostentatiousness.

“You’ll outshine the King,” Dori muttered, holding up the dress. Rhonith laughed, shaking her head.

“Has he not found Thraín’s old wardrobe?” she wondered, frowning lightly as she placed the last of her emerald-studded combs in her hair. “I would think those clothes should fit Thorin, they are similarly built.” Thráin might not have been allowed to do much ruling, but he had certainly known how to look the part of a Prince on official occasions – and a successful Guild Master the rest of the time.

“I couldn’t say, nana,” Dori replied, slipping the gown over her head and doing up the lacings in the back. Considering she had only been shown to Thrór’s old wardrobe – Thorin had been steadfastly denying putting on anything owned by his grandfather; ashamed of the way he had acted and wishing to distance himself from the gold-sick King Under the Mountain he had portrayed – Dori doubted that alternative means of dress had been found. Thorin was shying away from the gold-embellished wardrobe of Thrór, instead using some of his own old clothes, as ill-fitting as they were, whenever his travelling clothes needed washing.

“Perhaps we should go visit, then, sister; ensure that our King looks his best for tonight’s event,” Rhonith replied cheekily, studying her appearance in the mirror as she tied the laces that ran down her forearms. “Have you decided whether you will appear female tonight?” Rhonith asked, leaning back in her seat and studying Dori’s flushed cheeks.

“I wouldn’t have time to sort out an appropriate dress,” Dori hedged, obviously nervous at the thought of appearing in public as her own gender for the first time in more years than she cared to remember.

“It is your choice,” Rhonith said, reaching for the dwarf’s hand, “but if you wished it, I’m certain Frís would not begrudge you the loan of one of hers. She was a little wider than you, though you are taller,” Rhonith mused, pulling Dori to stand beside her in the mirror, “I think we could find something to fit you in her closets. Thraín did enjoy spoiling his wife with new gowns.”

“Perhaps I will have a look while you find something for Thorin in his adad’s closet,” Dori smirked, though she made no promises.

“Then we should get going,” Rhonith smiled brightly, excited to leave her room even though she still struggled with walking far before fatigue claimed her. Dori chuckled, waving her off towards the door.

“Going where?” Legolas popped his head in the door, his eyes widening. He had just come from morning practise with Kíli, intending to join the two princes for a soak in the pool once he’d fetched his spare tunic. The plan almost flew out of his head as he stared at Rhonith’s glowing face. She looked like herself – _happy_. Legolas couldn’t help but smile back.

“To make sure Thorin looks like a King,” Rhonith winked, laughing as she twirled to show off the brilliant facets of the gems on her dress.

“You look very pretty,” Legolas murmured, holding out his hand. “If you will permit me, my Lady Princess, to escort you to His Majesty?” he asked, eyes alight with teasing, and bowed formally. Rhonith laughed, sounding more like herself than she had in weeks – even before the Dwarrow left Mirkwood.

“As you wish, my Lord Prince,” she replied cheekily, accepting his hand with a curtsey. Dori shook her head bemusedly, trailing after the two Elves.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo was assisting Ori in the Library, putting the final touches on their recitals for the feast. As they worked in companionable silence, his mind flew back across the Misty Mountains, all the way to his home in the Shire. They’d be getting ready for Yule by now, he knew, and though the Dwarrow Dáin had left behind were also preparing for Yule, this would be the first year he wouldn’t have a tot of grandma Took’s best brandy or Belladonna’s famous blackcurrant jam tarts on the first morning of the Midwinter Feast. The thought made him sad. He had considered asking Bombur – who would be taking over some of the kitchen duties once Maeassel was gone – if he could have the ingredients for the tarts, but he’d been overcome by shyness the last time he saw his rotund cousin and forgotten all about it. He was still not used to his family – even if he considered all of the Company akin to family, it was different to be actually related to some of them – containing the likes of Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur. Of course, he had tried to tell himself, the three did not actually treat him any differently; and in truth, he was only related to Bombur anyway, but he felt a sense of longing for the Hobbits he had so swiftly left behind, with little more thought than he’d give the Sackville-Bagginses on any given day. Bilbo felt guilty for his tenants, though he had been conscientious enough to ensure that Holman had a letter of intent stating he would be gone for some time and to address any concerns to his cousin, Fortinbras Took, the Thain, at Tookburough. Still, Bilbo felt homesick – not for the first time during the Quest – though he had to admit that he felt quite welcome in Erebor.

 

* * *

 

 

In the King’s chambers, the two ladies found King Thorin poring over papers in his study. His duty executed, Legolas remembered his interrupted plans, running off with a quick greeting. Thorin looked up briefly, nodding in return.

“We’ve come to ensure you look the part of a King, nephew,” Geira announced, stepping through the door and unconsciously repeating the phrase that used to mean hours of uncomfortable measuring and choosing of fabric for Thorin when his Amad said it. He groaned. Behind the elleth, Dori smirked. Having been his tailor for years, Dori was well aware of the memory replaying in his mind, Thorin knew.

“I see you’ve brought a tailor to help you in that endeavour,” he replied, trying to keep from panicking. He was too busy going over the last details of the agreement they were meant to seal this afternoon – Thrór’s Seal still hadn’t been found, which bothered him more than he let on – and Thorin really didn’t feel like trying on outfit after outfit.

“No, no,” Geira laughed lightly. “Dori is here to look through your mother’s wardrobe; I told her she could borrow one of Frís’ dresses if she wished to be female for the feast.” With that, she brushed past him, pressing her palm against the centre of the wall decoration in the bedroom – Thorin had a brief moment of panic as he wondered if the bed had been remade – leaving him to gape after her.

“What are you doing?” he cried, jumping to his feet and hurrying into the room. “Oh,” he gasped, staring.

“There are many doors in Erebor made with the skills my parents taught me,” Geira said casually, popping her head back into the bedroom and smiling at him. “Did you never wonder why you couldn’t find a wardrobe in here?” Thorin could only nod, as he stared at what his mind was telling him must be his parents’ wardrobe – only it was an extra _room_ – filled with clothes. “I though you could fit something of Thraín’s, and if Dori is willing to help, we might even be able to make something to fit Dwalin…” she frowned thoughtfully, pulling out different garments – all in his favourite blue, Thorin noted distractedly – and draping them over the back of the large chair in the middle of the room. Dori was looking through the many – _many_ – dresses on the other side; Thorin didn’t remember his mother wearing half of them. “Of course, the lads will need to be properly dressed too,” Geira muttered distractedly, handing him one tunic – Durin blue with silver embroidery – which looked like it would fit perfectly. “Try that one on for size, would you?”

Thorin could only nod, retreating to the bathroom. Five minutes later, he was cursing ever having laid eyes on the room of clothes as he struggled to get the cloth to fall properly over his chest, having given up on tying the lacings that ran from his hipbone to the hem.

“I hate this!” he seethed, wanting to tear the old fabric to pieces.

“Oh,” Geira replied sadly, “I thought you’d look good in blue… I can find something else. There’s a fine one in deep maroon that would go well with your hair…” Thorin groaned.

“The colour is fine,” he muttered, kicking the wall sullenly. The empty sleeve mocked him. “I mean trying to put on clothes with only one arm.” Sighing, he turned to face her. Geira eyed him speculatively.

“Dori!” she called, making the tailor come running. “You think we could modify the closures on a few of these?” she asked, gesturing to the tunics she held. “As well as either cut off or pin back the surplus sleeve… we’d need something he can easily fasten with one hand.”

Dori nodded slowly.

 

* * *

 

“Rhonith asked me to tell you to report to Thorin’s chambers when you were – and I quote – ‘ _Looking like the gorgeous nephews she knows she has’_ ” Legolas announced loudly when he entered the royal pools, greeted by the loud laughter of Fíli and Kíli playing in the water.

“Why?” Kíli wondered, taking advantage of Fíli’s distraction and dunking his brother.

“Apparently, she is on a mission to find you all new clothes for the feast,” Legolas shrugged. “She and Dori were going through Prince Thraín’s wardrobe when I left.” Fíli paled slightly, though Kíli simply shrugged.

“Well, whatever’s in there is bound to be better than what we’ve worn so far,” Kíli suggested, though Fíli remained apprehensive, a vivid memory playing before the young Dwarf’s eyes; his amad and Dori discussing fabrics and cuts, while Uncle Thorin stoically stared into thin air from his partially naked position in the middle of their living room. He shuddered. He had long ago promised himself that he would not share that fate as an adult – and usually he managed to dress himself quite well, Fíli thought.

“I suppose it can’t hurt to look,” he averred, employing the time-worn but effective diversionary tactic of ‘ _Well, I tried, but there was simply nothing I liked, Amad_ ’.

 

* * *

 

Sitting with Bofur at lunch, and not quite aware how they arrived at the topic, Bilbo found himself expounding on the delicacies on offer during the traditional Yule season in the Shire, to the great interest of those around them. This was followed by comparison with Dwarven dishes – a few had already been served without Bilbo’s knowing, for example the bat-meat sausages that Kíli had loved so much – which were usually rich and savoury in flavour; ‘putting meat on your bones through the dark winter’ as one Dwarf put it. They had a few traditional baked goods, but nowhere near as many fruit-inspired dishes as Bilbo was used to. By the time Bombur arrived, sinking into the seat next to Bofur with a hungry groan, several Dwarrow around him were clamouring for the Hobbit to introduce these fantastical pastries he’d been talking about. Bombur laughed jovially, popping a sausage into his mouth.

“If cousin Bilbo wishes to cook for us, he need only ask. I’m sure we can find space for him in the kitchens,” he winked at Bilbo, who flushed, “and I’ve heard of a great many Hobbit-dishes during our travels that I did not sample at his home, which I am anxious to taste myself.”

“Aye, cousin Bilbo is a good cook, for sure,” Bofur claimed, puffing contentedly on his pipe. “I shall fondly remember his pantry’s delicious contents!” The miner laughed uproariously, joined by several of his neighbours. Bilbo blushed.

“Well, if it isn’t any trouble…” he began, only to be interrupted by Dori.

“Trouble? Mahal, Bilbo, I told you we want you to feel at home here. You are a Lord Companion; even if you went back to the Shire tomorrow and never returned, this is still your home, too.” Dori patted him fondly on the shoulder, before moving on in search of her brothers. Bilbo winced slightly; when Dori was distracted, she didn’t always think about how comparably fragile Hobbits were, and used more strength than necessary. Bofur chuckled.

“You’re our family, Bilbo, we want to share in your traditions as you share in ours – even if we can’t promise to find all the ingredients of traditional Shire-food,” he whispered, leaning in and squeezing Bilbo gently round the shoulders. Bilbo nodded, emotion robbing him of his words as he leaned into the hug.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin had not gone into the Treasury himself, instead sending Nori to fetch the beautiful necklace made of mithril and Thranduil’s gems of starlight. Someone had moved them since Thorin had smirked over keeping them, lost in the throes of his madness, however, and it was quite late by the time Nori returned with the decorative box.

Looking at the jewels, Thorin once more admired the clarity of the cuts and the craftsmanship of the setting, wondering if the jewelsmiths of Erebor would ever regain the level of skill needed to work something this fine. He almost felt reluctant to part with it, though he knew that Thranduil would appreciate the beauty of the piece.

 

* * *

 

Dori looked critically at herself in the moirror, studying her appearance. He hair had been braided slightly different, though it was just as intricate, and the strangeness of seeing herself as a female – and intending to present as such in public, not just in the privacy of Dís’ bedroom – made her frown.

“You look beautiful, nana,” Ori murmured quietly, giving her a small smile. “It is a good colour on you.”

“Geira chose it,” Dori explained. The fabric was finer than any she’d ever worn, the deep mauve and wine colours complementing her colours perfectly. She would have liked to wear the dark amethyst purple of her mother’s house, but Princess Frís had not liked that colour, and the mauve was the cloest she could come.

“Our sister has good taste,” Ori smiled, adjusting his favourite knitted scarf above the tunic Dori had brought him from the wardrobe of young Prince Frerin – who had been barely Battle-Ready when the dragon came, and whose physique matched Ori’s quite well – pleased with the way he looked. Dori had changed his hair a little, making him look more adult somehow, Ori thought, idly wondering if Kíli would like it. The thought made him blush, remembering the husky voice in his ear whispering ‘ _you like it_ ’. Dori kindly didn’t ask, or perhaps she was too distracted studying herself. They had all been allowed to take a few pieces from the Treasury – Nori had been in charge of that aspect of their appearances – and Dori sported a silver necklace with dark red garnets as well as garnet hair ornaments.

“Are you ready to go?” Geira popped her head through the door, smiling at the sight of Dori. “You look very pretty, sister,” she murmured, pressing her forehead against Dori’s for a moment. Dori sighed, looking at herself one last time, before nodding. They were ready.

 

* * *

 

Walking into the Hall, Legolas felt watched by everyone inside. Beside him walked Rhonith, with Thranduil on her other side, while in front of him the three ri’s marched together. He smiled, catching the eyes of a few of those who were staring at the finely dressed ladies. Adar, of course, was in one of his favourite flowing silk robes, but Legolas had opted for a rather fancier version of his usual tunic and trousers, along with the circlet that marked him a Prince of Mirkwood. Rhonith was wearing her own circlet, shining mithril leaves that told those who knew of her status as the Princess of Eregion, though she was also wearing fancy Dwarven hair-clasps to mark her mother’s heritage. Ascending the small dais that held the High Table, Legolas found himself seated between Rhonith and Thranduil, with Dori on Rhonith’s far side, and King Thorin on Thranduil’s. A sea of faces stared back at him, though they were not hostile – some were even smiling at him, and a few were openly leering at Dori, he thought, giving those dwarrow a fierce scowl of reproof.

 

* * *

 

 

“Friends and allies!” Thorin called, once the first course of dishes had been consumed and the Feast no longer resembled a pack of ravenous wolves presented with food. “I stand before you today, as King of Erebor, King of Durin’s Folk. In this capacity, I declare Master Bilbo Baggins forgiven for his theft of the Arkenstone, which has been returned to the Mountain!” As he opened the box, revealing the gentle light of the Arkenstone, everyone craned their heads to see. Slowly, noise began rippling through the room, as the Dwarrow stomped their boots and clapped their hands rhythmically cheering Thorin’s name. At Bilbo’s side, Bofur poked him, making the Hobbit leap from his seat. “Master Baggins, Lord Companion of Erebor,” Thorin intoned solemnly, turning the face the small Hobbit, who would have collapsed into his seat under the weight of so many eyes if not for Bofur’s warm hand on his back; a show of silent support, “do you accept this boon I owed you, with all the responsibility and honour that comes along with it?”

“I-I do,” Bilbo stammered. He wanted to sit back down, but Bofur hissed at him. “Oh!” Bilbo exclaimed, suddenly remembering that there was a special phrase to use to make his acceptance official.

“ **Ins Mahal taglibi luknu** ,” Bofur whispered.

“ **Ins Mahal taglibi luknu**[1],” Bilbo dutifully repeated, to the sound of great cheers. Thorin smiled warmly, bowing his head and giving silent permission for Bilbo to sink back into his seat, his legs feeling like jelly.

When the sound of joy died down, Thorin turned to the Elvenking, bowing politely, “As a token of our newfound friendship and alliance, I give you this gift, forged in days of yore, by a Master of great skill,” Thorin said, gesturing Dori to step forward, looking resplendent in her mauve dress, handing the finely carved wooden box to Thranduil, who opened it slowly, seemingly entranced by the sight of the pristine gems hidden within.

“Thank you, Thorin Aran,” The Elvenking said, placing the box before him with a soft look in his eyes. “This gift means a lot to me.” Raising his goblet, Thranduil called a loud toast to the future prosperity of Erebor; Thorin had to admit that it was a perfect toast for the target audience, smiling wryly into his goblet.

“Aunt Geira told me they belonged to your mother?” he asked, while Dwalin silently cut up his meat. Thranduil nodded, his eyes staring at something far back in the mists of the past.

“My father’s mother purchased the set from the Dwarrow of Nogrod,” he began quietly, “one of the last transactions before we left Doriath, in fact. My family were not present for the sacking, my mother wanted to visit Círdan, the Ship-wright, who was a distant kinsman of hers. It was on that journey my sister fell in love with a mortal Man, who was later killed by Glaurung, a dragon of great power.” Sipping his wine thoughtfully, Thranduil continued slowly, “When my grandmother passed from these shores, she gave the stones to my mother, Nenglessel, though Naneth did not wear them often; she preferred pearls and gems the colour of the sea she had left behind to follow my father. When I married my Nínimeth, Naneth gave them to my wife, who loved them dearly, scattering the gems across her hair and enjoying the way they sparkled at her throat in the light of the fires when we danced.” Thranduil smiled softly, tracing one of the mithril settings with the tip of his finger.

“So why did you have the setting redone?” Thorin wondered, idly spearing a piece of venison on the tines of his fork. Thranduil smiled softly, nodding at the pale head of his son, oblivious to his surroundings as he spoke with Geira.

“They were meant to be worn by a lady of my House, Thorin,” he replied, “and when my last son marries, they will be given to his wife. I thought it fitting to have a new setting made, one which incorporates elements of both her races, don’t you?”

“You know, then?” Thorin asked, slightly incredulous; the Company had all but agreed that they were the only ones who had realised. Thranduil chuckled, pouring more wine into his goblet.

“Mellon, I do not think you could find an elf in my halls that has not seen how my son looks at Rhonith – perhaps except Rhonith herself.” He frowned slightly, “I have known for a very long time that she would be my daughter by marriage as well as by heart.” Closing the box gently, he traced the geometric patterns along the lid, rosewood inlaid in walnut, Thorin thought, smiling gently at the two younger elves. “These gems have been destined for her for more than two thousand years, Thorin, though I am finally beginning to think I shall not have to wait much longer before their union happens at last.”

“Dori thinks the First Gift went well,” Thorin offered, quietly pleased that the Princeling Elf had taken the time to learn their customs. Beside him, Dwalin nodded.

“For a new Craft, some of the pieces are quite good,” he added, stealing a piece of candied carrot from Thorin’s plate. Thorin smiled. “Even Bifur thinks Legolas could become a Master in his own right one day.”

Thranduil chuckled. “I should like to see my son’s face if you tell him to enter the Mastery Challenges one day.”

“Ach, it’ll be years yet before we’ll have proper challenges,” Dwalin rumbled, trading another piece of carrot for a few wedges of apple.

“I’m quite glad Balin didn’t demand my braids now,” Thorin muttered, even if he secretly thought he had deserved more of a punishment than was dealt, “I’m not sure I’ll ever learn to smith with only one arm.”

“Not to worry, my King,” Dwalin smirked, “I’ll hold your iron for you when you get tired.” Thorin nearly choked on the swallow of wine in his mouth, turning to glare at Dwalin, his cheeks flaming red. He’d forgotten how much Dwalin enjoyed teasing him during official occasions, managing to keep a straight face while delivering his double entendres. On his other side, Thranduil had mercifully engaged his Captain in conversation, organizing the stowage and transport of his jewels back to his halls, and ignoring Dwalin’s words. Thorin began plotting revenge, reaching down to pinch Dwalin’s thigh.

 

* * *

 

“You owe me a dance, my lady Princess,” Legolas heard himself say. Rhonith laughed brightly.

“I suppose I do,” she teased, raising her goblet at him before swallowing the last of her wine. Getting to her feet – a little unsteady – she turned back to him with a smile, holding out her hand. “Coming?”

Taking her hand, feeling unaccustomedly nervous, Legolas walked towards the open section of floor where the Dwarrow were showing off intricate reels and dances; they might not be many, but they knew how to fill a room with noise, Legolas thought wryly.

“I don’t think I’m steady enough on my feet to join the group dance,” Rhonith admitted in a low tone, tilting her head towards him. Legolas nodded slowly, silently grateful. He was a good dancer, but he didn’t know the steps, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself by stumbling.

“Seven Leaves would fit this music,” he offered thoughtfully.

 

* * *

 

“Want to dance?” Kíli asked, the wine at dinner having made him momentarily forget the existence of crutches – or, rather, the non-existence of his lower leg – smiling at Ori. The scribe blinked slowly, seemingly having had a bit too much as well, based on the very careful way he moved his limbs. Behind Kíli, his brother groaned.

“Kíli?” Ori asked, a bit confused. Kíli smiled, holding out his hand.

“Dance with me!” he laughed, pulling Ori from his seat with a bit too much force, making them stumble back into Nori’s chest.

“Think you need to give up dancing for now, my Prince,” the Thief smirked, “you seem a wee bit inebriated. Perhaps Ori will have to keep an eye on you, make sure you don’t hurt yourself.” Without quite knowing why, Kíli found himself in the seat next to Ori, who had reclaimed his spot on the bench, as well as a full stein of ale – the Broken Axle had supplied the ale, while the Elvenking had supplied the wine – thinking that he might have had a bit too much wine already. Shrugging, he took a sip of the frothy brew before him, leaning into Ori’s side as he listened to the scribe talk about one of the early days of the Quest, when they found themselves pursued by Orcs and Wargs.

“And Kíli shot so many, trying to give the rest of us time to escape that we all worried they’d reach him before he began to run,” Ori proclaimed with a flourish of his goblet. The audience gasped. “If Kíli hadn’t been there, I don’t think we would have lived.” Ori finished dramatically, down-playing the Elven rescuers considerably. Kíli smirked. His belly felt all warm and…fuzzy…

 

* * *

 

When Kíli fell asleep against his arm, snoring lightly, Ori was surprised by how familiar the sound was; he hadn’t really noticed anyone’s snoring during the Quest, drowned out by the loud one-dwarf concert that was Glóin’s breathing system. It was sweet, he thought, the way Kíli snuggled into his soft scarf.

“Help me get him up to bed?” Fíli murmured as he sat down on Kíli’s free side. Ori nodded. Picking up Kíli’s crutches too, the two young Dwarrow began the arduous task of shifting Kíli – who might be the slenderest among them, but certainly weighed his fair share anyway – up the stairs and towards the bedroom he had claimed in the Royal Palace, next to Fíli’s. Navigating the stairways wasn’t easy; Fíli’s sense of space was still a little off, which meant he moved very carefully when it came to turning corners or going through doorways. Eventually, Ori lifted Kíli alone – he was not as deceptively strong as Dori, but he was no weakling – while Fíli took the crutches, following along in his wake like a lost duckling.

 

* * *

 

Putting Kíli on his bed, Ori began to undo his boots, while Fíli removed several pieces of ceremonial armour that would be uncomfortable for sleeping. The young archer woke up groggily a few times, declaring almost belligerently that Fíli was his best brother. He didn’t notice Ori’s presence, which Fíli felt quietly thankful for, not feeling a need for a revisit of the scene Nori had taken great delight in painting into his mind over breakfast. Pulling the blankets up around his little brother, Fíli smiled, pressing his forehead against Kíli’s as he said goodnight.

“Night, Fee,” came Kíli’s slurred reply as they closed the door behind him.

“I should…” Ori began, looking nervous. “I should get to bed too.”

“Aye,” Fíli agreed. “Me, too, I’m tired.” With a quick smile, Ori set off down the corridor. “Oh, Ori!” Fíli called, when he was nearly at the corner, “d’ya still need a hand in the Library? Kíli hasn’t got morning practise with Legolas anymore, so he’ll be joining myself and Balin in the morning for lessons, but he needs something productive to do in the afternoons.”

“Sure,” Ori called back, a small smile flitting about his lips. Fíli inwardly smirked. “He can help us with the catalogues.” With one last nod, the small scribe was gone. Fíli smiled. Step two had been set in motion. Whistling a soft tune, he made his way to his own bedroom in a good mood.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why did you take up carving, Legolas?” Rhonith wondered, letting Legolas help her undo the lacings on her gown, slipping out of the dress easily. Stumbling back to bed in her loose shift, she picked up one of the more recent figures from her nightstand, running her fingers lightly over the small toy.

“It’s a gift,” Legolas mumbled. When Rhonith looked up, she was surprised to see his ears glow slightly. “For you.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, even though she felt a little mystified that Legolas thought she needed toys. “You’ve gotten very good in a short time,” she added, when he seemed to be waiting for something. “I like this one,” Rhonith mumbled sleepily, pointing to the small simbelmynë. Legolas smiled.

 

* * *

 

Thorin had lost track of time talking to Thranduil, who had been almost visibly touched to be allowed to read Hanar’s letter, the bequest for him actually drawing a small chuckle from the stoic Elf.

 

When he finally made it back to their rooms, he found Dwalin already on the bed, his boots by the door but otherwise still dressed in the fine Durin-blue tunic Dori had uncovered from Thraín’s wardrobe. Thorin stared. Dwalin was asleep, sprawled on the foot of their bed, as though he’d simply sat down for a rest and then fallen asleep. Snoring lightly, he shouldn’t have been as hot as Thorin’s mind was currently finding him, staring at the way Dwalin’s hand was casually resting on his crotch, lazily curved around the promising beginning of an erection, was enough to get his blood racing. Dwalin wasn’t even touching himself, but from the looks of him, Dwalin was having a _good_ dream, the tent of his trousers growing under Thorin’s lustful gaze. Struggling out of his tunic – Dori had modified it to be easier to handle with one hand, but Thorin was too impatient to work the closures slowly – Thorin toed off his boots, silently dropping his pants as he moved towards the bed. Undoing Dwalin’s laces with one hand was far too much effort for Thorin’s current frame of mind, pulling out one of the daggers that lived in his boots instead, and slicing easily through the laces. Pulling the cloth aside, he glanced up at the still-sleeping warrior, leaning in to lick slowly along his cock. Wrapping his lips gently around his prize, he sucked Dwalin’s hardening erection into his mouth with a growl of pleasure. It had been far too long since the last time he’d done this, Thorin thought, bobbing his head slowly, dragging out the sensation, the taste of Dwalin’s slow glide across his tongue. Supporting his weight on his elbow, he tried to wrap his hand around the base of Dwalin’s cock, but had to give up on the awkward position. Going slowly, he could manage to swallow all of Dwalin’s length; the considerable girth was the real trouble, Thorin thought with a wry smile; in other bedroom activities, he loved that girth immensely. Setting to his task, drooling slightly around his mouthful, Thorin sucked in another inch, feeling Dwalin touch the back of his throat.

“Thorin,” Dwalin moaned sleepily, moving lazily to get more of the pleasure Thorin was offering. Then he groaned deeply, his eyes snapping open. One hand reached down to fist in Thorin’s dark locks, pulling back the loose hair to reveal his face, blue eyes sparkling up at him as that wicked tongue scrambled his mind. “You know, I love watching you take me into that pretty mouth,” Dwalin growled, pressing Thorin down a little further. The King pulled back with a smirk.

“Because I am very good at it,” he winked, sticking out his tongue to lick lightly around the head. Dwalin cursed, falling back onto a pillow.

“So you are, my King,” he groaned, when Thorin sank back down, enveloping him in that sinfully hot mouth and teasing him with a tongue that knew just how to please…and how to torment. “Oh, Kurkarukê,” Dwalin moaned. “Is this what you want, my pretty wee wanton?” he rumbled, thrusting lightly into Thorin’s mouth. “Want to swallow me down until I explode for you?” Thorin moaned, his own hand moving to cup his erection. “You do, don’t you, my Thorin?” Dwalin groaned, the hand in Thorin’s hair clenching.

“Want you to force me,” Thorin moaned, pulling off long enough to say the words. Dwalin’s grip shifted, both hands burying themselves in Thorin’s dark locks. Holding Thorin still, he thrust up, holding him there until Thorin gagged lightly.

“Force you, hmmm?” Dwalin murmured, stroking Thorin’s hair as he let him up for a breath, “I can do that, yes, my love, force you to take all of me, push myself into that pretty mouth, into your throat, yes, you like that, don’t you,” he crooned, doing exactly that, cursing as he felt Thorin’s throat open for him. “Fuck, Thorin!” he groaned, pulling out once again, “I want you.” Thorin didn’t have to reply; he simply sped up his bobbing as Dwalin’s large fingers wrapped themselves in his braids, increasing the tempo until all the King could think of was remembering to breathe as the warrior used his mouth while he strained against nothing, his hand needing to clench around Dwalin’s hip for support as the scarred Dwarf did exactly as he wanted. “You always do this when I’m sleeping,” Dwalin moaned, “make me dream about your shiny lips or your tight arse.” Thorin nodded, swallowing firmly around his beloved’s hard cock, moaning at the feel of Dwalin’s bronzed skin pressed against his nose, the taste of salt on his tongue. Dwalin cursed loudly. “That’s it, Thorin,” he gasped, “moan for me.” Thorin did; the sound vibrating his throat around Dwalin, his hand still pressing bruises into the skin of Dwalin’s pistoning hip. Cupping Thorin’s jaw, he stroked his skin gently, rubbing his fingers over the growing beard. “You like this, don’t you,” Dwalin growled, feeling Thorin’s nose press into his stomach on every thrust. Looking down, he caught those blue eyes staring up at him, Thorin’s lips stretched tight around him, his pupils blown wide with lust. Dwalin groaned. “Yes, you do, my pretty One, so good… fuck! So close, Thorin, please, oh, Maker, don’t stop, take me, take all of me, Thorin, my Thorin, yes, yes, yes!” Dwalin’s cries trailed off into a roar of pleasure as he exploded, his hands tight in Thorin’s hair, his cock pressed firmly into his throat. Thorin pulled back slightly, moaning as the taste flooded his mouth, his hand furiously fisting his own need until his eye rolled back in his head. Dwalin’s touch gentled, his big body falling back on the bed, pulling Thorin along with him. “C’m’ere,” Dwalin slurred, pulling on dark strands. Thorin kissed him deeply, rubbing his tongue along Dwalin’s with a satisfied smirk. “You kill me Thorin, you really do,” Dwalin muttered. “And Mahal claim me if I don’t love every minute of it.”

“Me, too, Dwalin,” Thorin mumbled hoarsely, his voice rough and scratchy. “Me, too.” Dwalin chuckled, running his hands through Thorin’s hair, and returning the kiss.

“We should clean up,” he murmured some time later, when the kisses had turned slow and soft, pressing his lips against Thorin’s temple as the King muttered a dark protest, already half asleep. “You’ll not like those smallclothes in the morning any more than I will, Thorin,” Dwalin mumbled, stroking his hand down Thorin’s back, cupping his arse playfully. His cock made a twitch of interest against Thorin’s hip.

“Not tired, my love?” Thorin whispered scratchily, enjoying the slight burn of his bruised throat. Dwalin was right, he knew, but moving was currently far too much effort for his liking. Raising his face slightly, he studied Dwalin’s smile, warmed by the love that shone in his eyes – and heated further by the lust that was creeping back into his gaze.

“I already had a nap, it seems,” Dwalin winked, “but you can lie back and let me do all the work, if you like,” he whispered, rolling on top of Thorin, thrusting lazily against his arse as his lips found his neck, sucking gently.

“Mmmm, Dwalin,” Thorin rumbled, pressing back against his lover’s touch. Dwalin pulled back, pulling Thorin’s underwear off his legs with ease, before he stripped himself.

“You do have a lovely arse, amrâlimê,” Dwalin murmured, pressing a bristly kiss to one lightly furred cheek. Thorin widened his stance, murmuring into a pillow. “Like that, eh?” Dwalin asked playfully, dragging Thorin up to his knees and holding him steady as he continued kissing the firm globes, spreading them apart and using his tongue to make Thorin mewl.

“Yes, Dwaliiin,” Thorin whined, the slightly rough scratch of Dwalin’s beard shooting sparks of pleasure up his spine, “don’t tease me.”

“I’ll no hurt you either,” Dwalin admonished, fishing for a tin of Óin’s greasy salve in the nightstand. Thorin cursed.

“What if I want you to?” he murmured, glancing back at Dwalin with a wicked glint in his eyes. “I’ve no pressing negotiation business in the morning – Thranduil isn’t leaving till noon – and we have all night to play this game…” Dwalin groaned, his tongue continuing its skilful assault on Thorin’s defences.

“I’m still not going to hurt you… much,” he amended, chuckling into Thorin’s skin. “If we’ve all the time you say, I think I’ll go slow…” Dwalin teased. Thorin laughed throatily.

“You’re a terrible tease, my love,” he accused, mock-angry as he swatted playfully at Dwalin’s shoulder.

“So’s ye, kurkarukê,” Dwalin muttered, when Thorin rolled onto his back, pulling the warrior back to his lips, his own renewed erection pressing into Dwalin’s stomach.

“Then we are well-matched, dearest heart,” Thorin murmured contently, when Dwalin’s fingers returned to their task.

 

 

 

[1] As Mahal would speak (an idiom meaning ‘it is the truth’ / ‘it is so’)


	63. Diplomacy and Tradition

When Thorin and Dwalin finally left their bed, they had just enough time to wash and dress in the outfits Dori and Geira had kindly left out for them the day before; a less ostentatious, though still more finely decorated ensemble than the one for the feast. Thorin’s tunic came with Dori’s new fastenings, though he didn’t get a chance to test them. Kissing Dwalin was a better use of his time, either way, he thought, and Dwalin’s nimble fingers made short work of it, before he pushed Thorin into a chair and got started on playing with his hair. Thorin hummed, looking at the recently polished glass as Dwalin braided clasps and beads into his dark tresses.

“Soon, my beard will be long enough to carry decoration,” he murmured. Dwalin nodded, pressing a kiss against the crown of Thorin’s head.

“You wearing the crown today?” Dwalin asked quietly. Thorin stiffened, his happy mood vanished in an instant. So far, he had avoided wearing the King’s crown, choosing instead his adad’s old crown for his official appearances since the Trial. Thorin glanced at the box where the dark iron and gold crown rested.

“I… I want to, but I’m not sure…” he whispered, feeling Dwalin’s hands still in his hair and come to rest on his shoulders.

“It won’t hurt you,” Dwalin mumbled, pressing another kiss to the back of Thorin’s head.

“How can you know?!” Thorin cried, turning back to stare at him. Dwalin caught his lips in a gentle kiss, tugging on Thorin’s temple braid.

“Because we won’t let it, Thorin, I promise.” It was an oath; just as fervent as the one the warrior had given Dís before they left home, and he’d do whatever it took to keep it. “I’ll punch you out myself if I have to, amrâlimê.” Thorin chuckled; the response was so typically _Dwalin_. It was involuntary and watery, but it was a chuckle. Dwalin smiled.

“I just… I couldn’t bear it, Dwalin,” he whispered, “to lose myself so, while in moments knowing exactly what I was doing and still powerless to stop it. It came on so quickly; I didn’t even realise that I wasn’t entirely _myself_ at all.” Thorin claimed another kiss, desperate to believe – to be as certain as Dwalin sounded that the madness could not return and tear away all he had ever hoped for once more.

“Hey,” Dwalin interrupted, catching the hand that was clenched into a fist on Thorin’s thigh. Squeezing it, he continued hoarsely, “I don’t blame you, Thorin,” he whispered, pressing his lips against Thorin’s thick fingers.

“I do.” Thorin admitted, caressing Dwalin’s cheek.

“I know,” Dwalin sighed, “but I promise you, I will be here to stop you before it goes that far ever again. You don’t have to fear wanting to wear pretty things,” he murmured, picking out the last of the simple silver clasps Thorin had worn throughout the Quest and threading it onto Thorin’s hair. Thorin’s fingers shifted, catching hold of Dwalin’s hand and pressing a kiss against his palm.

“Promise?” he asked, feeling small.

“I swear it.” Dwalin said. Thorin felt some sort of tension leave him at the words, looking up at Dwalin with a soft smile.

“I love you so much,” he whispered, “ **Halwmugrê**[293].” Dwalin grinned at him, tilting his head back to kiss him properly.

“ **Maralmizu**[294], Thorin,” Dwalin replied, his tongue pushing the words into Thorin’s mouth. “Besides, I still owe you a thing or two that _requires_ you wearing nothing _but_ pretties,” Dwalin winked as he pulled back, returning to the task of sorting out Thorin’s long hair. For a moment, Thorin sat frozen, and then his booming laugh filled the small chamber, echoed by Dwalin’s guffaws.

“You’re a terrible dwarf, my love,” Thorin grinned, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye, “but maybe that’s why I love you so.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Morning, Atheg,” Rhonith smiled, waving Thranduil to take a seat as she finished braiding her hair, confused when he remained standing.

“I thought we would enjoy morning meal together,” he invited, holding out his hand for her.

“Sure,” she smiled, “I haven’t seen you much, these past few days… though I gather you have refrained from making my nephew’s temper explode,” she teased, taking his arm. Thranduil chuckled.

“Indeed. You are certain you wish to stay? We could have a sled made to take you home,” he offered, though he knew she would decline. Rhonith did not surprise him, shaking her head.

“No, Atheg, I feel that my place is here for now. I will see you in spring, however.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Back to being a male, sister?” Nori asked, when he walked into Dori’s room that morning. She was wearing her usual clothes, her hair and beard impeccably braided.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, “somehow my hands just braided it that way. Long familiarity,” she laughed, giving him a wink in the mirror. “What did you want, Nori?”

“Did Ori speak to you yet?” Nori asked, fidgeting under Dori’s gaze.

“About Kíli being his One?” she replied, frowning as she pulled on her sur-coat. Nori nodded. “Aye, he did. I told him to speak with Thorin, and he came back saying it was fine, but they were taking it slow because of Kíli’s youth.” Distractedly, Dori stared at herself in the mirror she had liberated from the previous owners of her modest house, fingering her braids and adjusting her clothes.

“Commendable,” Nori croaked. “I had expected you to be less… sanguine about the whole thing.”

“ _Nori_ ,” Dori replied, glancing at her shifty brother. “What do you know?”

“Nothing!” Nori protested. Dori’s stare intensified. Nori scowled. “Fine! Only that the two of them were making a mess of things, because they were both so worried, so Fíli asked me to help him sort them out!” Dori sighed.

“As long as they don’t cross borders they shouldn’t, I won’t stop them.” Dori smiled, cupping Nori’s face and pressing her forehead against his. “Ori’s a good lad, Nori, and for all his mischief, Kíli is too. He is Dís’ son.” She was surprised when Nori hugged her, but Dori returned the embrace with a soft smile.

“Thanks, Dori,” Nori smiled, tugging on her beard. Dori laughed. “By the way,” he said, pausing in the doorway, “d’ye think Geira realises that the carvings are a First Gift?”

 

* * *

 

 

“I will… miss you,” Legolas said, when Thranduil conveniently disappeared to speak with Bronwe after breakfast.

“Promise me you will be careful,” she asked, taking his arm as they walked slowly through the corridors. “I know you will want revenge, but… do not let yourself come to irreparable harm.” He chuckled, but Rhonith did not join him.

“I’m always careful,” he swore, even as an image of flipping over and Orc’s head crossed his mind. Rhonith shot him a speaking look.

“If the scouts are right, you’ll be fighting more than usual,” she frowned.

“I am not completely without skill,” he teased, trying to lift her mood, “I did, after all, take Azog’s head not even a month ago.”

“I mean it, Legolas,” she said, stopping to turn and cup his face in her cool hand. “Be safe. All of you.” When her hand fell, it landed on her side; there was no scar where Bolg’s blade had cut, but Legolas could still envision the way she had looked; blood covering her torso in a spreading pool of dark red that had made him more fearful than ever before.

“I promise we will be vigilant,” he said, stroking along her ear and into her hair. Rhonith smiled, her Durin-blue eyes sparkling up at him. “Now, come and give us a proper farewell,” Legolas said, breaking the moment before he forgot himself, and set them moving once more.

 

 

* * *

 

Leaving Erebor was a far smaller undertaking than their arrival at the head of an army marching to war, Thranduil mused, looking at the assembled people by Erebor’s Front Gate. By now, the Men had left his Halls also, and Thranduil was looking forward to the quiet days ahead, snow blanketing his realm in soft whiteness, even if they would miss the feast for tomorrow’s equinox. The box – a piece of artwork in itself – that Thorin had given him the night before, had been securely wrapped in cloth and tied to his own saddle. Belant looked anxious to leave, scraping his hoof through the dirty snow that had been churned into the earth by many feet; Elves might be capable of walking atop the snow, but Dwarrow and mounts were not. He had redressed in his black armour – it was old, now, made for him by Celebrimbor once, to replace the Doriathren armour of his youth – because Bronwe’s scouts believed there were still Orcs lurking in the north.

“Until Midsummer, King Thranduil,” King Thorin said, bowing lightly. Thranduil returned the gesture; the Dwarf had managed to return to the personality he had displayed when the Company were staying in Mirkwood, and the Elvenking found himself trusting that this Thorin would be the one to remain on Erebor’s throne, rather than the angry caricature they had seen when they first arrived at the Lonely Mountain.

“Until Midsummer, King Thorin,” he replied, mounting Belant – who was giving him spirited dancing in place until Thranduil settled his weight properly, showing the large Elk who was in charge today – with easy grace. Turning the mount around, he placed his hand above his chest, bowing his head to Rhonith, who stood beside Thorin. She gave him a soft smile, returning the familiar gesture.

“ _Nover_ , Atheg,” she called. “ _No gelin idh raid gîn, a no adel gin i chwest_[295].”

“ _No veren, Sellig,_ ” Thranduil called, as the small party mounted up. Maeassel – who had been walking when they journeyed from Mirkwood more than a moon’s turning earlier – was seated on Aithiel, who gave her former rider a fond lick on the cheek in farewell. Legolas rode up on Talagor, bowing from his seat.

“ _Faro vê_[296], Legolas,” Rhonith murmured, leaning into the light touch of his hand upon her ear. Thranduil smirked, careful that neither of them noticed. He raised his hand, getting the group moving. Rusgon looked a little apprehensive; Thranduil’s scribe would have preferred walking, but he mounted up gamely nonetheless, sitting on a doe who seemed to be eyeing Belant with some interest.

“ _Northaf_!” Thranduil called, setting off with a final glance back at the small group of Dwarrow – and the somewhat taller Rhonith – standing by the Front Gates.

“ _Galo Anor erin râd dhîn, mellyn-nîn_[297],” Rhonith called after them, waving her hand in farewell.

 

* * *

 

Thorin was secretly pleased to see the backs of the Men and Elves; he might have reached cordial understandings with Thranduil again, but Erebor was a _Dwarf_ mountain, and he longed to hear the songs of his people ring through the halls once more, without anyone worrying about outsiders overhearing their sacred language.

“You are worried for them,” he stated in a low tone as he offered Geira his arm, leading the way towards the food hall for the midday meal.

“Thranduil had reports of increasing spider attacks; the beasts have grown bolder since the defeat of the Shade in Dol Guldur, where we might have expected their numbers to lessen without a driving force of darkness behind them,” she sighed. “Instead, the Children of Ungolianth seem to have multiplied even more rapidly.”

“It is difficult being the one left behind when the one you love go off to fight battles without you,” Thorin replied philosophically; in his mind replaying the tense months after Dwalin’s first departure for Erebor with Thraín’s expedition.

“You are observant, nephew,” Geira teased, “but yes, you are right. Though it is silly of me to fret; he is off with the patrols more often than not, whether I know about it or not,” she sighed. Thorin chuckled.

“He is your One,” he murmured, “if you did not worry for his safety, I would be worried.” He looked ahead of them, nodding his head towards Dwalin who was in deep conversation with Nori. “I still cannot believe I almost lost him,” he whispered. “I do not deserve the forgiveness I have been granted.”

“If you had to deserve forgiveness, Thorin, it would not be forgiveness. It would be settling a debt.” Geira squeezed his arm gently as they walked through the doors, sinking into her seat with a grateful sigh.

“Walking is still tiring, Auntie?” Kíli asked beside her, already buttering a fluffy roll.

“It is, bulsalus,” she replied, accepting a bowlful of stew from Bombur with a nod and a smile, “but I must be active to regain my strength. I have promised Ori to show up in the Library this afternoon, though I do not know how much help I will be; I am feeling tired still.”

“Ori did ask for a few more volunteers, Uncle,” Fíli interjected from Kíli’s other side. “I told him Kee and I would come help; apparently there’s a large section of works that desperately need to be catalogued and looked over before the tomes fall apart from the damage they have sustained.”

“No, Fíli, I need you with me this afternoon,” Thorin said. “I want to be done with the trade agreements with Dáin’s people before **Nurtu Mamahrân **[298]****. Kíli may help Ori and Geira, if it is as vital as you say; I believe Master Baggins has also been hard at work in the Library.”

“Yes, Uncle,” Fíli acquiesced, inwardly smiling.

“You’re there to work, Kíli, do remember that,” Thorin added drily, making Kíli’s ears redden. Thorin smirked, though he remembered what it was like to dislike the restraints imposed by his elders.

“I wasn’t going to do anything I’m not supposed to,” Kíli grumbled, poking at his food. Geira hid a smile.

“Auntie will be there!” Fíli exclaimed. “She can be a chaperone or something! Or maybe help Kíli remember his Family Songs…” he teased, poking him suddenly glum brother. Kíli scowled.

“I know them better than you!”

“Nuh-uh,” Fíli sing-songed, poking fun at his little brother.

“Boys…” Thorin sighed, while Dwalin sniggered into his stew. “You’re not proving to your aunt that your amad raised you to be good dwarrow,” he groaned, pinching his nose when the argument devolved into a small scuffle.

“I don’t know…” Geira mused, “Did you know, my lads, that your grandmother met your grandfather when she was twelve years old?”

“Amadel said they became friends young,” Kíli said, momentarily distracted. “She always giggled when she said so.”

“Yes, but do you know _how?_ ” Geira chuckled. Kíli shook his head. “One day, Frís was playing with one of the neighbour’s dwarflings; as I was told the story, they were playing peacefully, except for the other girl’s brother, who kept jumping out behind them to scare them. After that had been going on most of the afternoon, Frís had had enough. ‘Next time,’ she said, ‘I’m going to punch him in the face.’. Her friend was a little leery at the prospect, but she agreed to teach her brother a lesson.”

“What’s that got to do with Sigin’adad?” Fíli asked, mystified. Kíli smirked beside him.

“Well, Thraín was on a tour of the Mountain, something the King used to do regularly; walk among the different sections of Erebor, speak with the commoners. Now, the little Prince saw the two girls playing, and – as his adad was busy, and Queen Sigvór had stopped to speak to one of the merchants – he saw the opportunity to sneak off to play with someone his own age. He poked Frís on the shoulder, intending to introduce himself. Frís, of course, didn’t know who was behind her, and simply spun around, fist first. Thraín didn’t get a word out edgewise before he was staring up at her, golden braids flying as she gaped at him in surprise.”

Dwalin chuckled. As if his mirth opened a floodgate, the sniggering spread along the table, until everyone who’d known Frís as the stately even-tempered Queen she had grown to be, always mild-voiced though she possessed a core of steel, was laughing.

 

* * *

 

 

Arriving in the Library, surprising Ori, who hadn’t heard the midday bell, the two volunteers quickly found themselves seated at a pair of work-desks, a stack of dusty and damaged tomes beside them, along with a piece of parchment for annotations. Kíli did work diligently for the first few hours – diligently meaning he only glanced at Ori every fifteen minutes – but then his patience ran out and he began doodling on the bottom of his parchment. It was an almost unconscious habit that Balin had often bemoaned, but Kíli had never managed to break it.

 

* * *

 

Geira felt quite at home in the Library; it was stocked with many scrolls she had read over the years, and sometimes she’d find familiar names among the authors; Dwarrow or Elves she had known – or, in the latter case, still knew – their faces appearing before her mind’s eye once more. Not many scrolls had made it out of Khazad-dûm, of course, so the oldest texts in Erebor were only about 800 years old. The majority of the works had been collected during Thrór’s reign, though a lot of copies of texts that had been moved to the new capital in Ered Mithrim when the Royal Seat changed, dated back to the years of her Thorin. Those scrolls might be among the oldest, but they had also been stored the furthest from the entrance, and Ori’s first walkthrough had only uncovered damage to a newer section where rodents had made inroads in tomes that turned out to be related to the cutting of gemstones mostly. Of course, that wasn’t a priority topic at the moment, but each one still had to be catalogued and the damage described, sorting the damaged tomes into piles of ‘unsalvageable’, ‘still legible’, and ‘restorable’ respectively.

“What’s this book doing here?” she wondered, breaking the utter quiet of the vast space with the exclamation.

“Hmm?” Ori hummed from his own desk, his nose decorated with spots of ink.

“This is a book of maps from Khazad-dûm,” Geira revealed, opening the dusty tome with a flourish. “Someone stored it among the tomes on jewel-cutting.”

“Why?” Kíli laughed, but Geira wasn’t smiling, staring melancholy at the large book of yellowed pages.

“Because I wrote it.” Pointing to the first page, her mark was clearly displayed, an artistic combination of the different runes that began her names. “I remember doing this for Thorin…” she trailed off. “He wanted to show little Thraín their old home… Eirný made it into a series of carpets for him to play on with his little toy soldiers…” Tracing a few lines with her finger, she smiled, seeing again the small dark-haired dwarfling who had grown to be a strong King in his own right.

 

* * *

 

Ori was the las to leave the Library, sorting the pages of notes left behind by his two assistants; Geira’s Cirth had a peculiar slant to it, as though she was used to writing the runes differently; it was a style Ori had become familiar with as he studied the tomes in Erebor’s large Library – the style common to manuscripts written in Khazad-dûm or by authors who hailed from there. Kíli’s work, however, made him blush; the parchment had been filled with notes of the books, yes, but interspersed with almost calligraphy doodles of his own name, scattered in between Kíli’s rough-but-legible cirth. Copying the notes unto a fresh piece of paper, Ori stuffed the doodled scroll into his pocket before hurrying off to dinner with his siblings.

 

* * *

 

At dinner, Kíli spent a good twenty minutes exclaiming about the map-book Geira had made. The peredhel herself had excused her absence in the hall with fatigue and accepted the offer of a tray in her room, though most of her small family realised that she had sought solitude from memory as much as she had sought rest and quiet.

“I wonder if there’s similar books about Erebor?” Fíli asked, but Ori just shrugged; if there were, they had yet to unearth them.

“It could be fun to see how much grandfather changed from the original layout,” Thorin mused, Balin nodding a few seats down.

“Seeing these…” he mused. “You could almost believe we could retake Khazad-dûm with ease.”

“We tried that, Balin,” Thorin rebuked, memories of Frerin coming to the fire of his mind. Beneath the table, Dwalin squeezed his leg. “Moria is lost to our kin, evermore.”

“I’d guess it would be nearly empty,” Balin continued, answering Kíli’s question about the Orcs who had called it home. “We slew so many Orcs in the battle here; that must have been most of their forces.”

Thorin’s glare finally penetrated his old advisor’s wistfulness.

 

 

* * *

 **Nurtu Mamahrân** dawned in silence. People gathered in family groups, if they had kin with them, and otherwise joined the large group in the Food Hall where a buffet had been laid out and spent the day telling stories about those they had lost in the Battle of Azanulbizar.

 

* * *

 

For once, the patrol groups were mounted. The speed of the Elves and their ability to run atop the snow meant they usually did not need mounts, but this time, Legolas had ordered that each Guard be assigned an elk, at least to carry food supplies. Most often, patrols sustained themselves by foraging and hunting supplemented with lembas, but in deep winter game was scarce and their enemy multitudinous; they needed more supplies than a normal patrol, while at the same time remaining unencumbered by large packs. Tuilinthel and Arastor had not returned from taking Lord Glóin to Rivendell, and the four Elves missing from his group were made up of those few volunteers who had not lost kin in the recent battle for whom they grieved. Among them was Amathanar, Bronwe’s son, and Magoldir had been torn away from newly wedded bliss – the Woodland Realm was the only Elven Realm where marriages did not need the traditional betrothal period of a year unless the couple wished it; most Elves with the wilder blood of the Nandor in their veins did not wish to wait – to fill up the ranks. He felt ambivalent; torn between joyous at the opportunity to fight for his home and despairing that he would have to be without Hallothwen for more than a month. They set off four days after the equinox; the very same day the Elvenking’s party had returned home.

 

* * *

 

In the Royal Palace, the Line of Durin had gathered in the room that had been Thraín and Frís’ sitting room, spending the sombre day retelling stories that made them laugh as much as they made them cry. In these rooms, surrounded by mementoes of a happy family life, it seemed to Thorin as though Frerin came alive again, more than he ever had when they had observed the day of remembrance.

Most people held that songs should not be sung on Nurtu Mamahrân, but when Dwalin brought out his viol, Thorin nodded anyway. Sending a longing look towards his own silver harp, Thorin sang quietly; his voice filling the room with its gravity. The piece had been written for the viol and harp together, and he _wished_ he could still play the beautiful instrument. He had polished and tuned it, but he had not yet figured out how to get the full range of notes with only one hand, so it sat silently in the corner, gleaming in the light of the fire when the flickering flames caught the inlaid decorations. Mother-of-pearl it was called; brought up from the fishermen in the South, a place Thorin had never gone called Dol Amroth.

 _Where is the brother we had_  
awaking early this morning?  
Where is that laughing lad  
gone with no prior warning?

 _Our golden prince lies dead_  
felled by the enemy’s blade  
in the arms of his brother he bled  
the life for a life he paid.

 _Bright the fire will burn_  
ash on the floor of this valley  
Always, for your smile I’ll yearn  
my life I’d give for yours gladly.

At the third verse, the harp-strings joined the viol, the gentle sound just as it had been when he played it. Thorin’s eyes widening, though the song did not falter. By the harp, her eyes closed as her fingers flew over the strings, sat Geira, playing the tune perfectly.

 _My lover is standing beside me_  
his face is of granite made  
lips forming soundless plea;  
begs me to make this nightmare fade.

 _Terrified, “Brother!” we call,_  
crying in desperate pain  
but you will not answer as night falls  
I’m staring at flames again.

 _Laughter has died on your face_  
as tears are drying on mine  
I leave you here in this place  
wishing to build you a shrine.

 _They claim that we won the war_  
that ours was victory grand  
I fear tis a wound that won’t scar  
this wish that we could grasp your hand.

 _Flame upon flame leaps higher_  
burning our grief through the night  
we gave you a glorious pyre  
that will not soothe sorrow’s bite.

 _Your face is one among many_  
the dead without numbers to say  
the young and the old we can’t bury  
their ashes the wind will blow away.

 _Families torn, lovers were parted_  
the wounded lie here, weeping  
so we stand broken-hearted  
and watch the flames leaping.

 _In this bleak valley of death_  
mourning, we burn our lost kin  
we heard your last breath  
innocence lost to the wind.

 _Where is the voice that was singing?_  
The sound of the hammer is gone.  
Where is the heart that was smiling?  
The joy that was yours is gone.

“Your amad sent me the song,” she explained quietly, when the strings fell silent. “Frís was so very proud of you both that year, even if it made her weep upon the page to write the words and the notes.” No one replied. Thorin swallowed heavily.

“ **Akhminruki asti, Agshazihar Geira Damâmu Durin**.[299]” Thorin croaked, bowing. Geira raised her face. Her blue eyes were grieved, but she smiled at him nonetheless, accepting the honour he was giving her.

“ **Mukhuh targzu satarrigi sigin,**[300] Thorin **Mutkê** ,” she nodded. Thorin smiled.

“Did you fight in the Battle?” Fíli wondered. Geira shook her head.

“No. I warned Thrór what his desires would unleash, I _told_ him what I had seen awaiting our kin when I looked in the mirror… I am afraid, Fíli, that his dismissal wounded my soul. I wandered the Forest for some time after, but I did not learn of your War against Orcs until Azanulbizar was already inevitable.” Geira sighed. “Grief is a powerful thing for those of Eldar blood, young one, and it can be paralyzing … even in me.”

“I think I would have seen you, if you had fought with us,” Thorin interjected, but Geira shook her head.

“You did not see me in the tent where they brought Frerin’s body, and I dared not speak to you,” she murmured. She had left soon after, not wishing to be discovered by Thraín and find out if his threats had been as serious as they had sounded. “No, nephew,” she said, making the strings hum softly, “I did not fight, but I _was_ there, afterwards, in the healing tents with Nurtalëon as my guard.” Geira sighed, “Galadriel sent Elven healers to aid you, in honour of the friendship the Noldor and the Lindor once had with Durin’s Folk, for many of the people who fled the destruction of Eregion survived thanks to the Dwarrow who opened their Gates to them. For the lives of so many, healers for your wounded was but a small repayment, but Thraín scorned our aid as Thrór before him… it was then I knew there would be no hope for the Line of Durin until you were King.”

“You really didn’t like grandfather,” Kíli mused. Geira shook her head.

“On the contrary, bulsalusê, I liked him quite a lot… when he was young and unburdened by the tasks that fell to him as Thrór slid further into his madness, Thraín was a good dwarf. I was happy for him and Frís when they married, though the cracks in Thrór were showing even then for those with eyes to see. Near the end of Thrór’s reign in Erebor, I daresay most of the actual ruling was being done by Thraín, working with Frís and the Black Owl to attempt to control the court intrigue.”

 

* * *

 

 

Thranduil watched his son depart, wearing more armour than he used to for patrolling the forest – a set once crafted by a smith of Erebor, in fact, shortly after it had been settled the first time – and he wished he could join him. He might be weary of war, but killing the spiders that infested his lands would give him great pleasure, even if Thranduil knew he was needed here.

“Thranduil Aran.” His people greeted him, as he strode through the halls, sharing a commiserative glance with some, a light touch to the shoulder with others, conveying his sympathy and gratitude for the losses of his people. He represented their safety, he knew, gave them a sense of protection from the darkness that crept across the land as he had done for nearly three thousand years of being the Elvenking. Before that, he had been their Prince, the one who united the different peoples of the Doriathren Sindar and the Nandor of the Great Forest, he and Nínimeth living proof that two such disparate societies could mingle freely and give birth to a new way of life that was neither one nor the other. Ascending the steps of his Throne – what he really wanted was to return to his rooms, get rid of his armour and have a relaxing bath – Thranduil looked out across his realm, settling down with a glass of wine and a platter of nibbles as he waved Galion to send in the first of his petitioners. This was his people, and he had a duty to care for them; a duty he had always weighted heavier than his consideration for his own happiness.

“Thranduil Aran,” she said, bending one knee before him.

“You are Nyelle,” he stated, “you are known to us.” She was not – as her name suggested – a bell- _maker_ , but a bell- _ringer_ , having turned the tinkling of tiny silver bells into a formal instrument with which to accompany the other musicians and minstrels. She smiled at him; Thranduil knew it was because she was pleased he knew her name. In truth, he knew most of the ones who lived in the Halls by name; a lesson from his Naneth in the art of ruling. Nenglessel had been far shrewder than most of her subjects ever realised – and in some ways far wiser than Oropher when it concerned unifying her new people under one banner even if she had not been raised to be a ruler like her hervenn. “What can I do for you?”

“My hervenn was among the fallen, Aran-nîn,” she whispered.

“Alagon,” Thranduil replied, picking the name out of the air; he had read the lists of the fallen, but it was always harder to face those left behind than to look at ink on a page. Nyelle nodded.

“Would you permit… I would like to play his favourite piece at the next feast, but it is a song about the Northern Wilds…” Nyelle hesitated.

The Elvenking nodded in understanding, “Whence the Dragon once came,” Thranduil finished. Nyelle nodded again. “As the Dragon is dead, I see no reason to deny your request if it will bring you solace. You may play the song at the next Moon-Feast.” Nodding permission – Rusgon would have written it down for the minstrels to be told, just in case he forgot – he accepted the curtsey Nyelle made as she left with a kind nod. The next one simply wanted sympathy for his late wife, which Thranduil granted with ease, allowing the ellon to share a simply story from happier days; those ones always made him think of Nínimeth, of the way she took care of each of their subjects like kin; something he had tried to emulate over the years. He fingered the red berries of the crown he had left behind absentmindedly as the ellon left, making way for an orphaned cook; no one but Thranduil touched the ever-changing crowns. His fingers wrought them – except for the times when Rhonith remade his winter crown, which was in his rooms waiting – and Thranduil’s hands took them apart, meticulously, carefully, until he was left with a pile of leaves and a pile of berries as well as the wooden pieces. Then he buried the things that would rot in what had once been – still was, to his mind – Nínimeth’s garden; just like she had done so long ago, when she made the first of his plant-based crowns, connecting one symbol of his rule with the very Realm he ruled.

When the last of those needing their King had gone, Thranduil rose, once more making his way slowly and visibly through his Halls, reaching his rooms just as the maid finished laying out a freshly laundered silk robe on his bed.

“Bronwe,” he greeted when the two ellyn were alone. “I had thought you would be off hunting.”

“Nay, mellon,” the Captain replied, moving to help his old friend loosen the buckles and undo the straps that held his armour closed. “I am posted here, while I let the young ellyn try their hands at the borders.”

“And you’re punishing your daughter – and Magoldir – for getting married while Maeassel was away,” Thranduil replied shrewdly. Bronwe chuckled.

“Hallothwen should have known what would happen,” he shrugged, “and I am wise enough not to argue with my wife when she wears that expression.” They shared a speaking look.

“It is indeed a wise ellon who does not anger our beloved Maeassel,” Thranduil agreed, stepping away from the armour with a sigh and heading towards the far door of the room.

“Want me to clean it?” Bronwe asked, continuing the conversation through the open door that led to Thranduil’s private pool; the result of an unusual friendship.

“Nay, I will do it later. If you do not wish to brave Maessel’s temper, you may join me – bring the wine – otherwise just leave the armour where it is.” Thranduil offered, unsurprised by the light splashes of Bronwe entering the warm water on his blind side.

“I miss that Dwarf,” Bronwe chuckled, pouring another goblet of wine. “He did have some grand ideas.”

“Yes, mellon,” Thranduil murmured, relaxing in the warm water, “I miss Hanar, too.”

 

* * *

 

 

The three Ur’s had taken up position in the Food Hall, along with most of the Dwarrow of Erebor it seemed, and spent their morning telling stories in hushed voices. “We lost our Uncle in Azanulbizar,” Bombur had murmured quietly in Bilbo’s ear, “Bifur’s Adad. His name was Bilbur.” The Hobbit nodded, looking around at the many Dwarrow; the Food Hall was quieter than he had ever believed it could be while inhabited by so many of the normally boisterous Children of Mahal. Food had been left out, but only sparsely consumed; even the notoriously hungry Hobbit had not had much of an appetite in the sombre room.

Bilbo thought it was late afternoon when he spotted the first person leaving a small pebble by the candle in front of Bifur. As Bilbo watched, Dwarrow kept passing by, dropping a pebble or two next to Bifur and murmuring a name. Each pebble was added to the pile in front of the Cantor, who did not make any motion to indicate that he heard the names spoken to him with each offering.

“Our Aunt and Uncle, Nauma and Mundi,” Dori murmured, coming up behind them, “as well as some great-uncles I don’t remember.” She, too, added pebbles to the pile.

“Family friends, Ketla and Fram,” Nori added, dropping a few small pebbles next to Bifur’s pile. The Cantor hummed. Flóki smiled at the Hobbit.

“Each stone represents a Dwarf,” he explained. “We will Sing to them and make them hum with Remembrance.”

“To most families, this is a quiet day, Bilbo,” Bofur explained, looking up as the door opened to admit the Line of Durin. “We spend it telling stories of those who were burned, but there is no official feast, nor do we serve fine meals.” Balin and Dwalin came first, leaving a grey pebble beside Bifur.

“Our Adad, Fundin,” Balin smiled, his eyes veiled with sorrow.

“My brother, Prince Frerin,” Thorin murmured, leaving a piece of green marble.

“We do not use gems for this,” Balin continued, coming to a halt next to Bilbo, “the Ritual of Memory is made with the base stones that Dwarrow are made from; granite, marble, flint, slate, and such.”

 

Silence fell in the Hall – somehow, everyone seemed to sense when the last Dwarf arrived – and then a deep drum-beat sounded. Bifur’s voice rose on the third beat, the single drum keeping time with the beating of Bilbo’s heart. No one spoke to translate the hauntingly beautiful tune – so different from anything he had ever heard – which Bilbo thought he could _feel_ resounding in his body; from the tips of his toes to the curly ends of his hair, he seemed to vibrate. Only the two Singers made a sound – aside from the drum, which seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, Bilbo thought, looking around to find the drummer, but seeing no evidence of a Dwarf with an instrument.

 

“ **Nurtu Mamahrân** ,” Thorin intoned, looking every inch the King – even more so than when they had first arrived and Thorin had been decked in fine furs and jewels. This was a true ruler, Bilbo knew, not simply a madman playing dress-up. “ **Hinrutul, nakaragmâ Mamahrân Azanulbizar**.[301]”

“ **Mamahrân**.” The Hall replied as if with one voice. “ **Mukhuh zalukôn**[302].” Bifur and Flóki were still singing a wordless song, which seemed to hang in the air while Thorin walked among the long tables, holding out the torch he carried and letting each Dwarf light a candle from its flame.

“ **Zulikmi id-‘aras**.[303]” The dark-haired King called, holding up his own candle as he returned to the dais. Again, every Dwarf in the room replied simultaneously, a powerful sound that Bilbo felt reverberate around the room.

“ **Zulikmi id-‘aras**.” they called, holding up their candles as one.

For a long time, the only sound heard was that of quiet breathing, the continuing Song echoing between the stone walls and taking on a haunting quality, and the steady beat of the drum as each Dwarf stared into his or her candle. Bilbo shivered.

The Hobbit did not perceive a signal, but suddenly the Song ended, seemingly between one note and the next. In an eerily quiet – steel boots on stone should not be nearly silent, in Bilbo’s opinion – and orderly fashion, every Dwarf in the room filed past Bifur, while he and Flóki handed out stones. It was not until Nori and Dori arrived – with Ori between them – that Bilbo realised that the two Singers seemed to be aware of precisely which pebble had been laid down by which Dwarf, returning each one to the hand that originally held it. When the pebble was returned – some Dwarrow received several – the Dwarf left, still holding the small candle.

“The candles will remain lit until they burn out,” Geira murmured in passing. “Each candle burning next to the pebble of the Dwarf you are Remembering.” Bilbo got up, falling in step beside her as she left the Hall.

“What do you do with the pebbles afterwards?” he asked, as they slowly walked through the hallways towards the Guest Wing.

“They are returned to the stone in lieu of the Dwarf who was burned, Bilbo,” she murmured. “It was a great shame that the dead of Azanulbizar could not be returned to the stone… nurtu mamahrân does not heal that wound – but it soothes our soothes the pain… at least a little.”

“It was very… powerful,” Bilbo murmured, still reeling.

“And once again it has been made clear to you that you are different from a Dwarf,” she guessed with a light smile. Bilbo nodded. “You will learn, eventually, **bahayê**.”

“Goodnight, my Lady,” Bilbo nodded outside her door.

“Goodnight, Bilbo Baggins.” Geira smiled fondly, closing her door behind her.

“She is right, Bilbo,” Bofur said from behind, startling the hobbit. “We’ll teach you; all of us.” Bilbo hugged him. With a shared smile and one of Bofur’s jaunty whistled tunes, the miner and the hobbit walked down the hall together.

 

Notes:

[293] My honey-bear

[294] I love you (dependable fact)

[295] Farewell, Father, may your paths be green and the breeze behind you.

[296] Good hunting.

[297] May the Sun shine on your path, my friends.

[298] Day of the Burned Dwarrow. A sober day, in which feasts are not held and songs are not sung, and most dwarves spend the day telling tales with family and friends, remembering the dead of the Battle of Azanulbizar (which happened on the 27th of 'afdush). This year, that’d be Dec 25 – the Elves leave Erebor on Dec 20th.

[299] Agshazihar is an acronym for " 'amad ugsharê, ziraku zahar" meaning “mother teacher, master of the house”.

In this role, the female would not only manage the household, enrich family ties, aid in spiritual bonding, but would also care for, educate and guide her children upon their path to adulthood. In addition, she would ensure the treasury of the family would be well kept and continues to grow; by advising her husband and other family members to go on profitable expeditions and trade ventures.

[300] May your beard continue to grow longer. Mutkê is an acronym for "Mukhuh takayyili" meaning “May he continue to live.”

[301] Today, we honour those who burned.

[302] May they be remembered

[303] I remember the fires (dependable fact)


	64. The Fellowship and the Great East Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dís is back with the Fellowship of Dwarrowdams; battling snow, grief, and meeting with Elves on her journey to Erebor.

Dís had been suspicious when she first caught sight of three horses coming towards them at a speedy clip on the rough road that the East Road had become once they were in sight of the Trollshaws. She had not expected to meet travellers on the East Road, which had been all but deserted since Bree; two were tall lithe figures, but the middle one was short and stocky. As the trio came closer, however, the Dwarrow recognised the familiar red hair of one of their own.

“Glóin!” Vár screamed, jumping from her seat on the jostling wagon where she had been trying to feed little Várdís. The Dwarf waved, his mount speeding up slightly, while his companions fell back a little. When he jumped from the pony – barely giving the poor animal time to stop properly – Glóin swung his wife into his arms, holding her as though he’d never let go. Dís smiled. Perhaps Glóin would have better luck returning her friend to a semblance of her usual self than Dís and Athalrún had managed.

 

* * *

 

Kissing his wife hello had never been so sweet, Glóin thought, claiming her soft lips for the first time in more than eight months and tugging gently on one of her many dark braids. She kissed him with something approaching desperation, but Glóin didn’t notice, lost in the feel of her back where she belonged; where he had dreamed of her so often during the Quest, and feared she wouldn’t be when he learned of her pregnancy. Touching her slowly, wondrously, assuring himself that she was as healthy as she could be after months on the road, Glóin felt a few tears escape him. “Amrâlimê,” he murmured into her mouth, feeling himself relax properly for the first time since Óin had pulled him out of his breakfast and Ribril had repeated her message. “Oh, my lovely, I have missed you.”

“Glóin,” she croaked, and he was scared by the broken sound of her voice. Vár’s one hand was fisted so tightly in his coat that Glóin thought she’d never let go, while the other was cradling a small thing between them. Resting his forehead against Vár’s, Glóin looked down, instantly entranced. “This is Várdís, my love,” Vár murmured, pulling back the fur that covered Várdís’ small face. The pebble smiled toothlessly, one of her arms fighting her swaddling. Her blue eyes stared up at Glóin, who felt speechless.

“Oh, love, she is _perfect_ ,” he breathed, tracing one round cheek with his finger. Clearly the pebble had lacked for nothing in the food department since they left home. “Hello, little gem,” he whispered, “I’m your adad, and I’m so very glad to meet you.” Vár burst into tears. Burying her face in Glóin’s shoulder, she poured out all the grief and heart-ache of the past few months. Glóin stared panicked at Dís, begging for an explanation as he wrapped his arms around his distraught wife, trying to calm her down with his touch, stroking his thick fingers through her many braids. Dís opened her mouth, but she was interrupted by an excited voice that Glóin had missed more than he’d ever admit to its owner.

“Adad!” Gimli cried, running up from the back of the caravan where he’d been walking with Athalrún and her family, pretending that he was too old to listen to the stories she was telling Borkur and Fjelarún.

“Wee Gimli!” Glóin exclaimed, holding out an arm for his son to join the hug, “By my beard, you’ve grown.” Gimli tried to smile, but it was wobbly at best. Vár kept sobbing. “Hush now, love,” Glóin murmured softly, truly worried now, “I’m here; everything will be well, I swear.”

“It can’t!” Vár cried. “I’m sorry; oh, Maker, Glóin, I’m so sorry!” she kept clinging to him. Glóin stared at his son, looking for some sort of explanation, but Dís took pity on the young lad who didn’t seem any more able to speak the words necessary than her cousin.

“There were two pebbles, cousin,” she mumbled, wrapping her arms around the trembling Vár from behind. “Glovarin did not live. I’m sorry.” Vár kept babbling apologies; as though the death of their son had been her doing. Glóin was reeling. Shifting Gimli into Dís’ arms, he wrapped his hands around Vár’s shoulders, pushing her away slightly to cup her face, feeling his heart bleed for her.

“Oh, Mamarbûna[304]…” he whispered, staring into her anguished face. “It wasn’t your fault, I’m sure.” Kissing her gently, Glóin rested his forehead against his wife’s, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. Vár hiccupped a sob, looking at him with a tortured expression he had never expected to see on his spitfire of a wife.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again. Glóin didn’t know how to make her feel better, how to wipe the despondency and grief from her face, so he simply kissed her, trying to prove to her that her news changed nothing for him – he dimly realised that she might have expected a different reaction, remembering how excited he’d been before Gimli’s birth, but, truthfully, he felt a little overwhelmed still, just by the idea of having another pebble; he had never expected more than one.

“I will never blame you,” he swore, “never believe that it was your fault, my love.” Glóin’s voice was low and fervent, desperate to make his spitfire believe him, to light that spark that usually lived in her eyes. “As Yavannah Kementari is my witness, Glovarin’s death was _not_ your fault.” Vár did not reply, though she did relax slightly into his arms, which he counted as a beginning. He had not lied when he said he didn’t blame her, but Glóin would continue to tell her so until she believed him. “Is that why you are here?” he asked, hugging her tightly against his chest, turning his head to whisper in her ear. Reaching for Gimli once more, he pressed a kiss against the dark red curls of his son.

“I wanted him to be returned to the stone in Erebor,” Vár whispered, her voice so low he nearly missed it. “So we could be… _close_ … to him.”

“Athalrún said it might… help.” Dís added helplessly. “She lost one of her own twins at birth, too.” Glóin nodded at her. With a last squeeze of his hand, Dís turned to face his erstwhile companions, once more the Princess of Durin’s Line. Glóin ignored their conversation

“You did well, my darling,” Glóin whispered, holding the both of them; his eyes leaking tears into his beard. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t there with you.” Vár shook her head, burying her face in his beard with a soft sound, but Glóin knew that eventually she would be better. Not fine; he didn’t think she would ever forget or perhaps even truly heal, but his Vár would be _Vár_ again. He hummed a silly tune in her ear, feeling at peace for the first time since he had waved goodbye to his family – how strange to think that the pebbles had already been well on their way by then and neither of them had noticed. Glóin almost wanted to chuckle; he certainly wanted to celebrate the healthy arrival of his small daughter, the grief for her brother a nebulous thing that felt somewhat unreal.

 

Neither of them spoke again until Várdís pronounced her desire for sustenance with a loud wail, making her father laugh. “Yer an insistant wee pebble aren’t ye, nathith,” he whispered, chuckling. “Just like yer Amad, methinks.” Vár’s smile at his jest was pale, but it _was_ a smile, and Glóin felt lifted to see it. “Ah, Gimli!” he exclaimed, suddenly remembering that they were not alone, “Let me introduce you to my guides and companions…”

 

* * *

 

Releasing Gimli with a final squeeze, and moving past the reunited couple, Dís looked at the two tall elves, so similar that she had a hard time distinguishing them from each other.

“There is a suitable campsite a few miles back, Princess,” one of them said – Dís thought it was a female – gesturing behind them. She nodded, and the caravan calmly moved on, Glóin having shifted his family away from the small road. A few threw Vár sympathetic glances; the story of her second son had not remained secret. Many – especially those born in Ered Luin – did not understand why she had chosen to travel, exposing the one pebble she did have to the dangers of the long journey, but Dís had – with the assistance of the no-nonsense Nýr – squashed any ill will before it reached Vár’s ears.

 

* * *

 

 

The two Elves proved to be a boon; beyond the unambiguously named ‘Last Bridge’ the road was no more than a muddy track of churned up snow beneath their boots and the wagons were hindered greatly. Unfortunately, the Elves – Glóin eventually got around to making introductions – told her they still had nearly 60 miles to go before they would be in Rivendell. Eventually, it was decided to abandon a few of the least salvageable wagons; they had few food-stores left and Glóin convinced his cousin that they would be impossible to bring across the mountains, so things were rearranged onto as few wagons and cart as possible. Some luggage was stowed onto Glóin’s pony as well as the two Elven horses, who seemed surefooted in any terrain. One of the young dwarrow – Dís thought his name was Náli – who hoped to earn his Mastery in engineering by helping with the restoration of Dale, turned one of the abandoned wagons into a small sled he could drag behind him. As the snow was still thick on the ground, it proved a swifter way of travel than the bulky wagons. In her own mind, Dís made plans to have the rest of the wagons converted likewise, though they would be pulled by the ponies who would hopefully be able to cross the Misty Mountains with them.

 

* * *

 

After almost eight days of rough tracks and steep climbs along the Bruinen ravine, Dís finally set tired eyes on the bridge to Rivendell, crossing to a small courtyard where several Elves were waiting in the low light of late afternoon. Their two taciturn guides immediately rode off, presumably towards the stables, but Dís strode forward undaunted. She was the daughter of Kings, a proud and unbroken line stretching back into the Ages, and she would not be cowed by Elves. Glóin was beside her and slightly behind, holding little Várdís in one arm and clutching Vár’s hand with the other; Dís did not think he had let go of her for longer than a few minutes since their teary reunion, even if there had been little time for private grief on their journey, everyone falling asleep as soon as the evening chores were done, exhausted from the hard pace they set.

“Princess Dís of Erebor,” the tall dark-haired Elf greeted kindly, “Welcome to Rivendell.” He bowed. Dís returned the gesture; this elf looked like Thorin’s description of the lord of these lands, a suspicion immediately confirmed by the elf himself. “I am Elrond Peredhel, Lord of Rivendell.”

“Thank you, Lord Elrond,” Dís returned the greeting. “You already know my cousin Glóin, of course, and this is his family, Vár, Gimli, and Várdís,” she introduced, gesturing to her left; smirking lightly when she heard one of the elves standing further up the stairs coo about the presence of a baby-dwarf. Her neighbour seemed unconvinced that Dwarrow _had_ babies; Dís had heard the theory that her people sprang fully formed from the stone, but she still felt amused that an _Elf_ could believe it. Lord Elrond turned his head to glare at the uneducated elf, but Dís had mastered her smirk by the time he turned back around. “To my right is Nýr and Ginnar, the leaders of our small caravan.”

“Welcome to Rivendell, all of you,” Elrond smiled kindly, offering Dís his arm – it was awkward, but she accepted the polite gesture – and leading her through a finely carved doorway. “If you wish it, I could send someone to show you all to the bathhouses before dinner?” Elrond murmured. Dís nodded; it had been a long time since she had felt properly clean; the cold weather not inducing great desires for bathing in the icy rivers and streams they had crossed.

“I’m sure we will all appreciate a warm bath, Lord Elrond,” she replied softly.

“This way, then,” he smiled again, gesturing down the corridor. Dís didn’t need to look to know that Athalrún and her brood were following along behind Glóin and Vár.

 

* * *

 

The Elves of Rivendell had been the souls of hospitality; offering all the aid her caravan could desire – Glóin lamented the large amount of lembas that would feed them until they reached the Halls of Thranduil, but Dís was grateful. It was strange, needing only a few bites to feel full, but the waybread was light and each Dwarf could easily carry more than his own supply for the journey.

“It’s too bad there are no proper roads through the Misty Mountains,” Dís said, sighing as she watched her people turn the boards of their wagons into sleds. The High pass was not completely blocked, but wagons would never have been able to pass; something they had known even before they left Ered Luin. The sleds were roughly made – they had no time to create metal runners, so they were simply made from nailed together boards pulled from their original wagons. In Ered Luin, she had believed that it would be possible to reassemble the wagons on the other side of the Misty Mountains, but once they had reached Rivendell, they had had to realise that bringing the few wheels still in usable condition would mean far more weight needing pulled across the Mountains than was feasible in winter weather. There were no roads to take on the other side of the range either, making the hand-pulled sleds a much better option. For a moment, she wondered if it would not have been smarter to take the Gap of Rohan, but it was too late to change her mind now.

“There used to be, my Lady,” a quiet voice replied behind her; not Vár, whom she had been addressing. Dís turned, faced with an unknown dark-haired Elf who was also watching the process keenly.

“Used to be?” she asked, “I thought the mountains were too steep for roadworks.”

“The roads did not go over the Mountains, Princess,” the Elf replied, “for they were made by your forebears; they went under the stone.” He sighed, seemingly saddened by the topic. Dís raised an eyebrow. “None now live who remember walking the paths well enough to guide or construct maps,” he explained, “except perhaps Princess Ilsamirë, but she is far away.”

“Princess Ilsamirë?” Dis asked; the name was oddly familiar.

“Daughter of Lord Celebrimbor, the Smith-Lord of Eregion…” The Elf smiled wistfully, and Dís remembered the story of the Silver-Hand… and how he was killed. “His friendship with the Line of Durin was strong indeed,” the dark-haired elf continued obliviously, “and she is among those who are most familiar with the long-lost Dwarrowdelf… Khazad-dûm, you called it, I remember.”

“I did not think Khazad-dûm’s tunnels stretched this far north,” Dís replied noncommittally. Ilsamirë must be another name for the one Glóin called Geira.

“Most of what once was well-built Dwarven stonework has since fallen into the hands of the Goblins who inhabit the Misty Mountains.” The Elf stared towards the snow-capped peak. “But no, there used to be tunnels throughout the range of Hithaeglir, my Lady, as far north as Ered Mithrim, I shouldn’t wonder. Now they are home to darker creatures; Goblins and Orcs.”

“My brother told me most of the Goblins were slain in the Battle of Five Armies,” Dís replied evenly, wondering why he brought up the topic when he could give her no useful information.

“Perhaps that is so,” the elf agreed placidly, “though you should remain cautious during the crossing nonetheless. Inspect the floors and far walls of any cave in which you might shelter.” Dís kept a lid on her temper; after reading Thorin’s letter and hearing Glóin’s frankly terrifying account of their travails in the Misty Mountains, she had no intention of being taken by surprise by Goblins, and she felt quite insulted that this elf would presume to lecture _her_ on travelling through mountain terrain.

“As you say, Master elf,” Dís said blithely, breezing past him to lend young Náli a hand.

 

* * *

 

Gimli would later claim to have been exploring, but in truth he and Bolbur were simply lost. The corridors, courtyards and rooms he passed all seemed similar. Gimli was entirely convinced that the elven architecture was shifting around him.

“Where are we?” Bolbur asked; they had not seen any Elves for some time, and Gimli knew he wasn’t the only one beginning to feel hungry.

“This is one of the doors to the Library,” an amused voice replied behind them. Both young Dwarrow jumped, whirling to face the speaker. “You’ve gone far from the guest rooms, young ones,” the tall darkhaired elf continued mildly. “Are you seekers of knowledge… or would you rather an escort back to the dining halls?” His eyes sparkled with mirth as Bolbur’s stomach rumbled.

“Food, I think, Master Elf,” Gimli decided, even if the Library might have been worth a visit. Beside him, Bolbur nodded shyly.

“This way, young guests,” the elf replied. “I am Lindir, the minstrel.”

“Gimli, son of Glóin,” Gimli introduced himself, “and this is Bolbur, son of Bombur.” Bolbur nodded.

The elf simply nodded, leading the way down the airy corridor and pointing out the different gardens they could look across as they passed.

 

* * *

 

 

“Princess Dís,” Lord Elrond greeted politely. “I hope your people have all they require.”

“I’ve heard no complaints,” Dís replied politely. “They’re anxious to move on, of course. We should be ready to set off in the morning.”

“Gimli is missing!” Vár cried, interrupting her cousin’s conversation.

“He’s probably with Bolbur,” Athalrún said calmly, trying to feed little Bomba while keeping an eye on Borkur. Blidarún was watching over Fjelarún’s plate, while Blákur sorted out his own sustenance, old enough to be trusted to eat his greens.

“I haven’t seen either of them all afternoon,” Blidarún murmured, “I think Bolbur wanted to see if the Elves had forges, amad,” she continued, before tuning her attention back to her sister, daring Fjelarún to try the green soup. Her mother sighed.

“Well, then, Vár, the forge is my best guess as to where our wayward sons have scarpered off to,” Athalrún smiled.

“I’m sure they’ll return soon,” Dís said soothingly, though Vár did not seem appeased. After the birth, she had grown increasingly needy when it came to knowing where her eldest was.

“A bit of curiosity is healthy for growing lads,” Glóin boomed, pulling Vár into the seat beside him and tickling Várdís lightly. The small pebble had her hand fisted around his chin-braid, making Vár smile gently.

“Ahh, you’re probably right,” she said, though Dís could see the remaining slivers of worry in her brown eyes and wrinkled forehead.

“They will come to no harm here,” Lord Elrond offered reassuringly.

“Amad!” Gimli shouted, making a beeline for the empty seat beside his amad. Vár squeezed his arm gently, the relieved breath she took only noted by Dís and Glóin, who shared a worried look. Dís smiled at her young cousin, enjoying his excitable babble as he said hello to his family; Gimli often reminded her of her own two lads, making longing burn in her heart.

“Ahh, the wanderers return!” she called, laughing lightly, and waving at Bolbur who quietly found himself a spot by his sister. “Did you find the forges?”

“No,” Gimli grumbled, starting in on his soup with a hearty appetite. “Got lost. Everything looks the same here,” he complained. “We found the Library, though, and Lindir showed us the way back,” taking a large bite of his roll, Gimli gestured to one of the musicians, who gave him a light nod before returning his attention to his lute.

“My best minstrel,” Lord Elrond explained. Dís nodded. They had hardly had any meals in Rivendell not accompanied by singing or soft music; it was not her favourite style – it lacked the beat of drums and the deeper notes of a bass, for example – but it was pleasant enough in an Elvish way. Setting her own mind to enjoying her dinner, Dís spent the evening in quiet conversation with those around her; Lord Elrond’s sons had gone to scout the west side of the High Pass, reporting that their sleds ought to be able to manage the crossing, even if they’d need two or three Dwarrow to pull each along. On the sleds would be their belongings, of course, as the Elven waybread meant they did not need to carry much food, and Elrond had given Vakri a full chest of medicinal herbs – including seeds – as a gift for the restoration of the Lonely Mountain; a gift of immense value, Dís knew. Vakri had been nearly overwhelmed with gratitude at the sight, even more so when presented with a book of medicines; recipes for salves and lotions and potions that worked on mortals – a copy of Elrond’s own work, that the Elf had bestowed on him after an afternoon of discussing technique.

 

* * *

 

In the end, they spent nearly a week in Rivendell, gathering strength for the journey ahead. Arastor and Tuilinthel had proven quite helpful, which made Dís happy to have them along; apparently, they were part of the Mirkwood Prince’s elite group of warriors, Glóin informed her one day, and both bonny fighters in his opinion.

Pulling her sled across the snow – young Náli, who travelled with little more than his clothes and his favourite measuring stick, had offered to help her pull it – Dís thought they were making good time. The Elves of Mirkwood were apparently more used to snow than their Rivendell cousins, and had constructed something they called snow-shoes for each dwarrow, which helped them cross the deep snow, pulling their narrow sleds behind them. They had had to leave their ponies behind as well, though they had pulled the sleds until the rolling foothills ended and the steeper mountainsides began; Lord Elrond had kindly offered one of his warriors to escort the ponies back to Rivendell where they would be housed for winter; when the snows melted, the animals could cross through the Low Pass.

The nights were bitterly cold – most caves were not big enough for all of them, so they had to construct small snowcamps during late afternoon, keeping warm in smaller groups; Dís felt quite pleased she remembered how to build a snow-shelter, something Dwalin had once taught her. Beneath the snow, temperature was constant, and with their thick fur-blankets to keep the chilly snow away from their skin they were quite warm.

 

* * *

 

When they finally reached the other side of the Misty Mountains, staring across the snow-covered riverlands, Dís felt a sense of awe that they had actually made it; she knew that Nýr and Ginnar had called her plan mad more than once – though they had set to making it reality with great enjoyment – and perhaps it was. However, staring at the horizon that hid Mirkwood from her eyes, Dís knew that their travels would soon be over.

“Arastor will go ahead, Lady Princess,” Tuilinthel said, interrupting Dís’ musings. “Without the rest of us, he can reach the Halls quickly; the King would probably be willing to let you borrow a few mounts to pull the sleds.”

“That would be welcome,” Dís admitted. Grabbing the handles of her own sled – Dís’ own luggage filled two sleds, with some of the less burdened re-settlers sharing the weight – Dís set off once more, determined to reach the valley floor before making camp for the night.

 

* * *

 

 

The trees of Mirkwood were no friendlier the third time Glóin passed beneath their boughs; naked fingers stretching into the sky far above them, while snow fell slowly on their heads. Beside him, Vár shuddered. Glóin wrapped his arm around her. The elks that Thranduil had sent them were not as big as Celegrandir, but Vár had categorically refused to ride one, so they had all been used to carry the burdens of the weary travellers.

“Hail and well met, travellers in Mirkwood!” An Elf called, stepping out from behind a large fir. Suddenly the group of Dwarrow were surrounded by well-armed Elves, though their weapons weren’t raised. Dís stared; the Elves had appeared without a sound, in landscape she would have considered void of hiding places. “Lord Glóin!” he exclaimed next, catching sight of Glóin’s red curls. “Welcome back to the Woodland Realm,” he smiled, bowing politely.

“Thank you, Prince Legolas,” Glóin rumbled, returning the bow. He felt immensely grateful to the elf who had made his speedy reunion with Vár possible.

“ _Dhe nathlof hi[305]_ ,” Prince Legolas called, his gaze encompassing all the Dwarrow. “You must be Princess Dís,” he added, bowing to Dís. “ _Mê le 'ovannen._ Though you remind me more of your mother, your son did not lie when he said you resembled your brother greatly.”

“Dís, this is Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, the son of Thranduil,” Glóin introduced. Dís bowed politely.

“I am afraid I have heard little about you from my brother,” Dís replied, “though I understand you were the one to kill Azog, saving his life in the process. You have my thanks for your valour.” Feeling somewhat stiff speaking to this Elf – Thorin might have told her more or less everything, but the Elven Prince had thrown her somewhat by bringing up Frís, whose loss remained a void in Dís’ life – Dís managed little more than distant politeness.

“I may have killed the fiend,” Legolas said, bowing his head in recognition of her praise, “though I believe Thorin’s life was saved as much by my act as it was by the actions of Dwalin, who carried him back to my Adar’s healers, who deserve most of your gratitude, in truth.”

“Thorin told me about Kíli’s leg, yes,” Dís murmured, feeling sick at the images Thorin’s words had conjured in her mind.

“It is a poison that has not been in use since before my birth,” Legolas replied, “Prince Kíli was very lucky to live.” Little Várdís began crying, interrupting Dís’ train of thought; probably a good thing. The Elf turned his head, staring rapt at the tiny bundle of fur in Vár’s arms. Dís frowned, wondering at the reason.

Gesturing at his wife, Glóin spoke with obvious pride, “My wife, Vár, my lad Gimli, and our new pebble, Várdís.”

Legolas nodded. “ _Mê le 'ovannen_ , Vár, _hiril in_ _Anfang **[306]**_ ,” he murmured, bowing politely. “Felicitations on the safe birth of your pebble.” Turning to Tuilinthel, he fired off a few rapid questions in Elvish, nodding at her response and falling into step beside Glóin. “Of course, we have heard much of you, Lady Vár, from your most eloquent husband,” he continued. Vár seemed a little flustered at all the attention. Beneath her fur cloak, Várdís was suckling contentedly. “I admit I had not expected to find you among the first re-settlers,” Legolas said, tilting his head.

“Pressing matters forced my beloved Vár to join cousin Dís’ caravan,” Glóin rumbled, “but we can speak of such things later.” Squeezing Vár’s hand, he nodded to the Elf above her head, an entreaty to change the topic of conversation.

“I am pleased you found your family, my friend,” the Elven Prince replied with a slight quirk of his lips.

“I am grateful to you, my Lord, for your aid in getting him west,” Vár managed stiffly, while Glóin’s booming laughter rang among the trees.

“ _I 'ell nîn_ ,” Legolas smiled. The rest of his patrol group was swiftly interspersed among the Dwarrow, keeping vigilant as they moved on, ever further east.

 

* * *

 

“I had not expected more guides than Arastor and Tuilinthel,” Dís said, when they had made camp for the night. Legolas had stuck by Glóin and his family as they made their way through the fir wood, though he had not let his fascination with the tiny pebble deter him from watching the surroundings with his keen eyes, keeping his ears peeled for the sound of approaching spiders.

“Arastor and Tuilinthel took it upon themselves to guide you, interpreting my orders as they pleased,” Legolas replied, sending the twins a wry smile that Arastor returned with a quick gesture, making the Prince laugh lightly. “I had not expected to feel a need to grant you further protection for your journey, Princess,” he admitted quietly, “however, in the weeks since the Battle of Five Armies, we have seen increasingly violent spider attacks within our Realm; I have been hunting with my party for several weeks, but the fiends keep coming up from the south. The Shade may have fled the ancient fortress of Dol Guldur, but I fear that with the controlling darkness gone, the spawn of Ungolianth have lost all restraint; we have discovered some that were obviously killed by their own kin, though they prefer to hunt among our trees, decimating the animal population.”

“Spiders?” Dís asked with a shudder. When she had read Thorin’s account of the spiders that infested Mirkwood, she had not believed him – _surely a spider could not grow to the size of a Dwarf?_ – but the Elf seemed entirely serious.

“It is my hope that we can eradicate them all, but they are cleverer than mere animals,” Legolas sighed, “we have suffered only one casualty, so far, but I fear more will come before winter’s end.”

“Could you not simply close your gates?” Dís asked. “Wait out the winter?”

“Where then might they spread? How much destruction would be wrought if they were left to roam unchecked?” Legolas replied. “We have battled this foe since your amad was a pebble,” he smiled softly, at odds with his serious tone. Dís felt confused. “If we cannot defeat it, what hope do Men have, what hope does your kin have, standing alone?”

“But you are standing alone.” Dís frowned.

“For now.” Legolas agreed easily, though he did not seem too worried. “Once the Dwarrow return in greater numbers, Thorin has offered his warriors to aid us; he wishes to clear and rebuild the Old Forest Road, to ease travel from the West… in truth, I had expected you would wait until the project was completed before you arrived,” he chuckled, “but they will be happy to see you.”

“I should hope so,” Dís grumbled. “They’re all in need of a good scolding; it’s been far too long since I’ve been there to keep them in line,” she joked, surprising herself with her words. The Elf laughed.

“I am sure Rhonith will perform admirably in your stead for now.” The thought seemed to amuse him.

“Tell me about her; Thorin was vague in his letter,” Dís demanded, but the Elf took no offense, seemingly needing little prodding to talk about the peredhel her kin had encountered in the Misty Mountains. In fact, Dís thought wryly, if Glóin had not already informed her that the elf was courting this girl – whom Glóin stubbornly referred to as Geira, though, apparently, she had many names – Dís would still have known who held his heart simply by the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes. The feeling was bittersweet, reminding her of long-gone years of looking at Víli that way, and enjoying the way he looked back. Eventually, she realised that the Dwarrow around them had fallen asleep, though some of the Elves were still awake and on guard.

“I apologise,” Legolas murmured, noticing the way she turned her head to look around the group of sleeping bodies made shapeless by thick fur bedrolls. “I did not mean to keep you from sleeping.”

“Often, Master Elf, ‘out of the abundance of the heart, the mouth speaketh’,” Dís smirked. The Elf ducked his head shyly. “Glóin told me you are attempting to court her in our way.”

“Yes… though now I am not sure if she knows that is what I am doing,” he admitted. “She told me she liked my gift – I learned a craft to do it right – but she did not speak of it further before I left Erebor…” His ears were turning red – Dís presumed that was what counted for blushing to an Elf. She felt an almost maternal sense of amusement, wondering if her sons would act like this whenever love found them.

“Trust me, even if she hadn’t known before you left, the Company would have made it clear; it is the duty of kin to point out such things for those who are oblivious.” Patting his hand, Dís began looking around for her bedroll, discovering that it had been laid out beside Athalrún’s. She smiled; having such a thoughtful friend really was a boon.

“I bid you a good rest,” Legolas murmured, still looking a little self-conscious. Dís simply nodded kindly, giving him an almost maternal smile as she burrowed into her blankets.

 

* * *

 

 

When the great Forest Gates were finally in sight, Dís could think of little more than her desire for rest. They had been walking in the hastily falling darkness – more than an hour later than they would usually have made camp – and everyone was tired from trudging through the snow. Fjelarún and Borkur were asleep on top of one of the sleds, and Blákur was visibly flagging. The adults among them were not doing much better; the snow was little more thank ankle deep, but wading through it for a full day was tiring.

“Welcome!” A stately elf called. Dís didn’t have to notice the crown – made of dark branches and what her eyes wanted to call icicles, but, surely, they couldn’t be – to realise that this was the great Elvenking Thranduil, dressed in black and wrapped in a white fur-trimmed silk robe. The resemblance to his son was uncanny – much like Kíli and Thorin, in fact, she mused tiredly – even more pronounced when Legolas stepped up beside him, running his fingers along the King’s ear. Dís stared; that was a peculiar form of greeting to her mind.

“Thank you, King Thranduil,” she managed without yawning, though it was difficult. “We are pleased to be here at last.”

“There is a feast prepared, though you are too late to eat with the rest of us,” he offered contritely. “I have given orders that you be served in the quarters assigned to you and washbasins brought to you, but we will meet officially on the morrow when you have rested.” Turning around, he waved to a red-headed Elf, who began herding them all of in the same direction. If it hadn’t been exactly the news she wanted, Dís might have been offended by his dismissive arrogance, but as it was, she rather thought she appreciated the no-nonsense foresight of this Elvenking. It was a very practical attitude, she thought, almost Dwarven. Somehow, Frís would have approved, she mused, chuckling at the thought. Legolas had told her the story of Lothig, and Dís realised that part of their welcome – some might be due to Thorin’s reestablishment of diplomatic links – but a large part of their welcome could only be ascribed to the fondness these Elves had held – still held? – for her late amad. Somehow it warmed her to think that she was not the only one to miss Frís, even if Legolas admitted that they had not seen her since the Dragon sacked Erebor.

Sinking into the softness of the elven mattress, Dís thought she might just forgive Thranduil any slight he could think of, simply for the opportunity to be clean, properly warm, and not having to get up before sunrise to move on.

 

* * *

 

 

“Good morning, Princess Dís,” the Elvenking greeted, when Dís was shown into a lavishly decorated cave – she thought she spotted Dwarven details here and there, mingling easily with the flowing Elven lines and the tree roots that seemed to penetrate most of the walls in these Halls.

“Good morning to you, King Thranduil,” she replied politely, taking the seat beside him.

“Did you find the accommodations satisfactory?” he asked, offering her a bowl of porridge. Dís’ stomach growled at the sight of all the _real_ food that covered the table.

“Very much so,” she smiled, holding back a groan of pleasure as the first bite hit her tongue, thick and creamy just the way she liked it. The Elvenking had an amused air about him, but he did not speak, content to focus on his own meal.

“Apologies for my tardiness, Ada, Princess Dís,” Prince Legolas said, striding through the doorway. Behind him followed Glóin, Vár and a tail of fascinated Dwarflings kept in check by Athalrún binging up the rear with a firm grip on Borkur’s hand. Dís smiled.

“Lord Glóin!” Thranduil exclaimed. “I had not expected to see you so soon. Horthonion tells me your journey here was uneventful?”

“Aside from a bit of snow, it was a pleasant enough trip,” Glóin lied, thinking about his sore legs. Legolas quickly hid a smile, but Thranduil’s expression remained stoic.

“And is this all your family?” Thranduil gestured to the many little ones, though he did not seem to care about Borkur making a mess with jam dripping from his bread-roll to the table – Athalrún was busy with little Bomba, who seemed to think splashing a spoon in her amad’s bowl of porridge was a grand game.

“Nay,” Glóin replied, gesturing proudly to his wife. “My wife, Vár, the most beautiful of dwarrowdams, my son Gimli and my new little one, Várdís,” he introduced, continuing around the table. Thranduil nodded.

“I had believed Lord Glóin overly enamoured with your beauty, my Lady Vár,” he said quietly, “but I see now that he was not lying. Long has it been since my Halls boasted such Dwarven beauty as is now gathered in this room.” Somehow, he managed to make eye contact with every dam in the room, Dís thought, making them all swoon a little at being included in his praise.

“I did not think Elves found us beautiful, King Thranduil,” Athalrún replied, always level-headed as she wrested the spoon away from her daughter. The Elvenking slowly got to his feet.

“May I?” he asked, holding out his arms. Warily, Athalrún handed over Bomba, but the pebble was instantly fascinated – and silent – surprising all of them immensely. Legolas smirked at Dís, who raised an eyebrow in return. “I think the last pebble I held was you, Princess Dís,” Thranduil said wryly, “but to answer your question; no, we do not consider the Hadhodrim beautiful in general. That does not mean,” he continued easily, before Glóin could offer objection, “that we are blind to the things you consider beautiful among yourselves. We do not see much beauty in your lines… but the eye can be taught to see, and there is more than one kind of beauty in this world.” Smiling softly at the pebble, who returned the smile and drooled on his robe, Thranduil returned to his seat, settling to eat as easily as if he had spent years doing it. “My Halls were made by your kin, as I’m sure you will have noticed, and though the Noldor claim to be the greatest friends of the Children of Aulë, I would wager you would feel more at home in my Realm than in Rivendell. Rhonith has wrought many changes over the years; not least in myself and my people.”

“You are kind, my Lord Thranduil,” Vár murmured, her dark skin hiding her blush as she looked up to catch the blue-eyed gaze of their host. Bomba gurgled happily.

“I would not have thought you experienced with pebbles, King Thranduil,” Dís mused, groaning as she sunk her teeth into a delicious berry tart.

“I raised four sons, Princess Dís, as well as Lady Rhonith, though she was not an infant when she came to my Realm.” Thranduil replied easily, tickling Bomba’s chin in between bites. “I do not believe any parent would forget how to care for offspring – Dwarf or Elf.” Glóin chuckled, but Dís simply studied the Elvenking calmly, digesting the new information.

 

The meal continued in silence for a while, until Fjelarún had gathered enough courage to ask why the icicles on his head did not melt. Thranduil laughed. Waving her closer, he handed the pebble to Dís, and removed the dark and spiky winter crown, setting it on the table.

“These are not icicles, _pinig **[307]**_ ,” he murmured. “They are made of a type of glass my daughter brings me from a dwarf settlement very far from here; something they call crystal glass and cut in facets like diamonds. These were made to look like icicles, for the purpose of tying this crown. The underlying green branches are fir, while these tines are made from a type of wood called ebony.”

“But why?” Fjelarún touched one of the spikes gingerly. Thranduil returned the crown to its place on his head.

“An old tradition, _pinig_ ,” he smiled; Dís recognised the look of old sorrow and wistful longing, “once, I had a Queen, whom I loved very much; she knew that I did not wish to be King when my ada fell in battle… so, in her wisdom, she tied me a new crown, one of leaves and berries, ‘The Jewels of the Living Forest’ she said, ‘more suitable for the King of a Woodland Realm than a crown of gold and gemstones’.”

“Was she pretty?” Fjelarún asked, climbing into the Elvenking’s lap. Dís stared. The ancient elf smiled, but he did not push the dwarfling away as she had expected. Across the table, Legolas looked a little sad at the mention of his mother; the same sadness she sometimes saw in Kíli when they spoke about the father he had never known.

“Yes, _pinig_ ,” Thranduil murmured, pointing at Fjelarún’s copper hair, “her hair was crimson, like yours, but darker, the colour of fresh blood in some lights, the colour of fire in others. Her skin was golden, and her eyes were emerald green. I thought – I still think – she was the prettiest elleth I ever saw; and I have seen Lúthien, she who is considered fairest among my kind through all ages.”

“Where is she?” the little girl wondered, looking around as though she could spot the Queen – but Dís knew there was no Queen; had not been a Queen for centuries. Thranduil’s smile paled.

“She is… very far away,” he murmured. Somehow, Fjelarún seemed to realise that she would get no more questions answered, but she was apparently content to remain on Thranduil’s lap all through the remainder of the meal, finishing off the food on his plate as he stared into the fog of years passed.

“It is my understanding,” Legolas attempted to change the subject; Dís was nearly startled off her chair when his quiet voice broke the silence, “that you wish to head off for Erebor as soon as possible.”

“I have already given orders that our Dwarven guests will be staying at least a week,” Thranduil interrupted, though his eyes did not focus on any of them. “There’s a storm coming; you would not wish to be caught outside without shelter while it rages.”

“When the weather clears, I will see you to Erebor myself,” Legolas promised, his smile making up for Thranduil’s distance. Dís nodded.

“Can we send a messenger to let them know we are coming?” she asked instead, secretly pleased that they would have some rest before the last short leg of their journey.

“King Thorin sent your raven back for you, my lady Princess,” the unobtrusive red-haired elf who had shown them to their quarters last night answered for him. Dís hadn’t even realised he had entered the room.

“Very well,” she nodded, “I shall send him word after breakfast.”

 

 

 

[304] She who is spirited

[305] You are welcome here

[306] Well met, Vár, Lady of the Longbeards.

[307] Little one

If you'd like to see what Nínimeth looks like in my head, this is a pretty good representation

Dís

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter and the last, as I've been a bit on the fence about them...


	65. Snowballs and Breakdowns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Littlemissbatty.

Ori looked at the whiteness stretching towards the horizon, filling his lungs with the fresh air and feeling the chill tickle his throat, the scent of snow still hanging in the air though the snowfall had slowed to a minor flurry over the past hour rather than the small blizzard of the dark hours. More snow would fall; Nori had wagered a barrel of ale that they’d have an even larger blizzard within a few days, though only a couple of Iron Hills Dwarrow had taken him up on the bet.

"A good day for a snowball-fight," Geira remarked, breathing deeply beside him. "Or a sleigh ride," she added, sounding far away as her blue eyes turned west towards Mirkwood.

"Perhaps," Ori agreed, part of him longing to play while the grown-up part of him reminded him of his responsibilities in the Library. He sighed, rubbing his chest above that spot that seemed to tug at him at times, making him want to find Kíli and an undisturbed corner somewhere – made him want to take the younger dwarf up on his challenge, made him want to spill into a strange fist. Kili would go for it, Ori knew, feeling his cheeks heat at the thought of their last encounter. He'd been so bold, _too bold_ , and he felt guilty for taking advantage of Kíli's willingness. He was older, he should be able to control himself better than someone barely of age! 

"You're ignoring him," Geira murmured, "and he's hurting over it, little brother." Ori stiffened. "Do you think I do not know what the Longing looks like?"

"I was... too forward," Ori admitted hoarsely, rubbing his chest. "Kíli deserves better than fumbling in corridors!"

"You will give him better, nadad," she replied quietly, "but you'd both do better with a little closeness." She sighed. "Do not make the mistake of pushing him away for his own good. Go spend time with him without touching if you feel that is necessary, but don't..." she trailed off, but Ori knew she was thinking about Legolas. 

"Why did you never..." Ori wasn't sure he was brave enough to ask the question, but Geira just smiled her sad smile.

"Because I am much older than you and stubborn to the point of foolishness, nadad." It was no real answer, but it was clear she would say no more on the topic and Ori felt embarrassed for pushing. At times it was easy to forget that she had lived twenty times longer than he could expect, had seen the rise and fall of kingdoms and travelled further than most even believed possible. Ori swallowed nervously. She might call him kin, and he had long-since realised that he cared for her as such, too, but she remained a stranger in ways he doubted any of them would ever manage to discover in truth, her experience in Middle-Earth so incomparable to that of a Dwarf. "Go find Kíli, Ori," Geira said, continuing to stare towards Mirkwood, and Ori took it as permission to flee.

 

* * *

 

 

Work was coming along steadily, Thorin thought, wandering through what had once been the Lower Commons. Everywhere in Erebor, anyone who was capable of lifting stone and moving rock was hard at work, but they had - in anticipation of his sister's arrival with a caravan of Dwarrow - begun ensuring that adequate housing was found or created for those who did not have family homes to return to or preferred living among others.

Thorin himself felt secretly relieved that Dwalin had moved into his rooms, and that the boys were only down a short hall and around the corner; he was used to living with all his family under one roof – not to mention the constant company during the Quest itself – and the sudden silence at night made it hard to sleep. He had tried, surreptitiously, to join the workers who slept in one of the large halls, but Bofur had - kindly and without making a fuss - told him to go home. It was an almost comical notion that he should miss Ered Luin, but he found that he missed being the blacksmith-prince of Durin's Folk more than expected. 

Thorin felt less than a whole Dwarf some days, his missing arm making him unsuitable for most of the physical tasks that his kin excelled at. Earlier that morning he had spun around too swiftly when someone hailed him from behind and nearly fallen into a wall because his centre of balance had shifted.

"You're brooding," Dwalin said calmly as he caught up, falling into step beside him with the ease of long familiarity and habit. He waved at someone he apparently knew from the Iron Hills. Thorin scowled at him.

"I'm useless!" He snarled at nothing, lacking his usual vehement gestures - somehow gesturing with only one hand reminded him of his infirmity in a way that even eating, which was still a challenge, did not. Dwalin laughed.

"That's not what I'd call you, my King," he began playfully, daring to pinch Thorin's arse as they walked out of sight of the workers. Thorin stiffened.

"Don't...don't call me that," he whispered, feeling the broken memory of their final confrontation before the battle rise up to come him. 

"Thorin?" Dwalin asked, dragging him into a convenient side corridor. Thorin shuddered, feeling like he couldn't breathe.

"I don-don't want to be your King," Thorin whispered, his teeth rattling with sudden fear. "Not like... him." Dwalin made a broken sound and suddenly Thorin's face was pressed against his shoulder and Dwalin's strong arms were wrapped around him in a tight hold that somehow made breathing easier even as a flood of tears spilled onto his green tunic. 

“Amrâlimê,” Dwalin hummed soothingly, his broad hands stroking down Thorin's back as he waited for the trembling to still. “I am here, Thorin, always, I swear it. **Maralmizu**.”

 

* * *

 

 

These days, looking for Ori was easier on Kíli than before. Not only was he still exempt from the heavier construction-work, but he had also been allowed to lose the crutches for most of the day, trying to get used to moving with his new peg leg. He still wasn’t fast, but he could manage walking all the way to the Library before he had to sit down to take the pressure off his stump.

He was a little worried that his reaction to Ori’s kisses had been too much, his teasing taken poorly, but Kíli felt far too fond of the memory to regret his words. In any case, unless Ori told him otherwise, Kíli wouldn’t mind repeating it – practice supposedly made perfect, after all!

Opening the door, breathing in the smell of musty books with a hint of mouse droppings that seemed to permeate the Library – Sigrid had laughed at the request, but she had promised him a few stray cats from Laketown to help Ori catch any mice – Kíli didn’t spot his elusive scribe. Frowning, he walked stiffly – stairs were manageable, but not kind – to the seat he had claimed as his own since the day Thorin had ordered him to assist in the Library. It was a rather transparent attempt at being helpful in courting matters that Kíli would have resented if it hadn’t brought him in close proximity to Ori for most of the day. He had never really believed Amad’s stories, but he had to admit that being near Ori made some part of him hitherto undiscovered thrum with something like happiness.

Bilbo had still been eating breakfast with his new cousins, engrossed in a winding discussion about the proper cooking of potatoes with Bombur, when Kíli left the Food Hall, but Ori had slipped out just before Kíli arrived with Fíli, so he should have been present. With a shrug at the empty space around him – Kíli was too tired to attempt finding him; his crutches abandoned in his room – the lonely archer pulled the first book in his stack closer, dipping his pen and making careful notations on the condition of the tome on the cataloguing sheet he had been given.

 

“There you are!” Ori called, sounding slightly breathless as he pushed open the door. Kíli dropped a splatter of ink on his list as he jumped in his seat.

“Ori?” he asked, his head snapping towards the door so quickly he heard an audible crack. Kíli winced, rubbing his neck.

“The blizzard is gone,” Ori informed him, stepping up to take a look at the parchment over Kíli’s shoulder, “and I-” he blushed deeply, and Kíli suddenly realised that his bored doodle bore a fairly accurate resemblance to Ori, wrapped in a scarf he had coloured Durin-blue. Ori cleared his throat, turning to look at him. His even teeth caught his lip, and Kíli felt an almost overwhelming urge to release it, soothing the bite with kisses. “-snow?”

“Sorry?” he asked, tearing his eyes away from Ori’s worried lip, slightly reddened by the pressure of his teeth, to look into his soft but anxious eyes.

“Do you want to go play in the snow?” Ori repeated dutifully before his lip was once more caught between his teeth. Kíli licked his lips.

“Yes.” He said, and if his voice was slightly huskier than he had intended, Ori didn’t seem to notice, smiling brilliantly and making Kíli’s heart warm in his chest. Getting to his feet, however, proved troublesome; when he rested his weight on the fake leg, he felt a sharp pain, dulling to a deep throbbing when he fell back into his chair, taking the pressure off. Kíli cursed blackly, scowling at the leg.

“Did you hurt yourself?” Ori asked, his hands fluttering in the direction of Kíli’s foot and his teeth once more biting into his lip; anxiety raising the pitch of his voice. “Let me see,” he muttered, kneeling and putting Kíli’s fake foot in his lap.

“No, Ori, don’t-” Kíli began, suddenly desperate to keep the leg concealed even though Ori already knew half of it was missing. The scribe, however, had already pulled up his loose trouser-leg and begun to undo the buckles that kept his leg on. He hummed softly, pulling the contraption loose. Kíli sat on the chair, frozen, trying to look everywhere but Ori’s face. He felt like weeping, even though he had no idea why it suddenly felt like the end of everything to have Ori looking at his missing leg.

“It looks a bit red – Oh,” Ori said, finally looking up at Kíli’s face, “Oh, no, did I hurt you?” he whispered, rising up on his knees and wiping a few tears away from Kíli’s stubbly cheek. “I’m sorry,” Ori continued, feeling his anxiety soar at Kíli’s despondent look. “I never meant to-”

“Stop looking at it!” Kíli burst out, his voice a shrill scream. Ori rocked back onto his heels, terrified when Kíli’s tears began coming faster, interspersed with a babbled stream of words he hardly understood half of. Wringing his hands together, he stared indecisively for a moment, and then he pulled Kíli off the chair, lying back on the stone floor and pressed Kíli’s face into his scarf.

“You’re not half anything,” he murmured, holding tight to the shaking Dwarf in his arms as Kíli’s tears soaked into his scarf. “You are exactly the Dwarf I want.” He repeated the words for a long time, until Kíli was breathing normally again, snuggled into his neck; Ori could feel heat spreading across Kíli’s face where it pressed against his own skin.

“I’m sorry,” Kíli mumbled, trying to free himself; he wanted to flee and pretend none of this had happened. Ori was going to think he was a complete weakling now. He might never want to kiss him again. The thought was almost enough to bring back the tears. Kíli’s breath hitched.

“Don’t be,” Ori murmured, squeezing him gently. “You needed that, and I…” turning his head, he pressed a featherlight kiss against Kíli’s temple, “I love you just as you are. Leg or no leg.” The reassurance did not bring the response Ori might have expected; instead, Kíli’s entire body stiffened on top of him, the younger dwarf pressing his hands against the floor on either side of Ori’s face to lift himself up off Ori’s chest.

“What?” he asked, staring down at Ori as though he did not believe his ears, hazel eyes rimmed with red and looking heartbreakingly handsome. Ori blushed.

“I love you,” he repeated, his hands sliding down Kíli’s sides to end up at his hips. The smile that slowly stretched Kíli’s lips was bright enough to light up all of Erebor, he thought, staring dazedly at the dwarf above him.

Leaning down slowly, Kíli kissed Ori gently, breathing softly against his lips, “I love you, too.” He did not let Ori utter a verbal reply, stealing the would-be words with kisses until Ori gave up and simply chuckled into his mouth, his fingers drumming lightly on Kíli’s hips as he returned the kisses, keeping them slow and soft even when he could feel the need for more thrumming between them.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’ll have to be a blue outer-robe,” Dori mumbled to herself, looking at the sketches she had drawn; some based on the garments Thrór had regularly worn, some based on clothes she’d seen in Thraín’s closet and even a few sketches based on styles she had dressed Thorin in back in Ered Luin when the Royals were expecting high-born visitors and needed to look more ornamental than strictly practical in a mining town. “And Dwalin in green…” Years of experience had taught her which colours best suited with Durin; even though Thorin and Dwalin both complained loudly and at length about the indignity of their Yearly Fittings when Frís and Dís teamed up with Dori to ensure that they looked at least a little like the royalty they were supposed to be, they still showed up regardless. Fíli, luckily, had inherited his amad’s sense of style – and he was kind enough to take care of his little brother too; the lads usually came to her shop together, getting their fittings over with in private. Dori thought Fíli simply wanted to avoid the spectacle. Kíli and Fíli would be in dark blue, as the Heirs of Durin’s Line, and she thought she ought to design a dress or a robe for Dís – though where they’d find time and or dwarrow to do the stitching, she had no idea – jotting a few notes to herself on a scrap of paper. There was plenty of fabric to choose from, at least, and although it was old, much of it had been stored in cedar chests and – after a thorough washing – would do better than most of the fabric she could have obtained when they lived in Ered Luin.

“What are you doing, Dori?” Geira asked quietly, pushing the door open. She still walked slowly through her days, but she was less prone to random bouts of tiredness, which meant Dori didn’t worry as much as she had done.

“Coronation gowns,” Dori sighed, staring despondently at the sketches. “Thorin refuses to wear anything of Thrór’s, and I know he’ll deny it, but he won’t want to wear anything gold either, which means a lot of Thraín’s finer garments are also out, unless they can be modified.” Fiddling with the stick of charcoal, Dori tried to visualise her future work. “Fur mantle for his cloak, too, maybe trimmed in silver…” she mused, jotting down a quick note.

“Give him Azog’s warg,” Geira said offhandedly, humming as she flicked through the pages. Dori’s eyes widened.

“That would be… symbolic. Do we have it?” she asked, suddenly feeling better about at least one of her projects; Thorin would surely approve of the pale fur, it would look regal – when she had finished with it – and contrast nicely with the dark in his hair.

“I’m quite sure all the wargs were skinned by the furrier of Laketown, I’ll have a note sent to Bard to ask.” Staring at the last sketch in the pile – Dori had modelled it after a few of the statues that had survived the fight in the Gallery of Kings – she pursed her lips thoughtfully before a wide grin stretched her face. “This one,” she pointed, “I’m not sure where you found the design, but it is… very similar to the coronation robes of Thorin I.” Reaching for a clean piece of paper, and a stick of charcoal, she hummed softly, a tune Dori didn’t recognise, her fingers flying across the page until two sets of matching robes were outlined clearly. “Eirný’s robes were designed to match her husband’s, though he was coronated some time before the wedding. Do you think Dís would wear something like that?” Idly, she sketched a different version while Dori considered the robes; this version was more dress-like, though no less beautiful.

“I didn’t know you were a tailor,” Dori said, ideas popping into her mind with nearly alarming speed. Dís would look _amazing_ in this; Dori felta nearly toe-curling sense of pleasure at the thought of making her friend look that beautiful. Beside her, Geira chuckled, wiping charcoal-stained fingers on the cloth by Dori’s elbow.

“No, nana’,” she said, blue eyes glittering in the light of the lamp on the desk, “you will not conscript me for this endeavour.” Picking up the brush Dori had used for shading her better designs and a pot of blue ink, Geira added swipes of colour to her sketch. “I could draw you what the main players wore for many events during the history of Durin’s Folk, I am no tailor, I simply have a good memory. Actually _making_ the patterns…” Geira shuddered, “I’d be little use for that, though I am a fair hand at embroidery and gem-work. I dislike sewing. If you need help, I know several Elven maidens I’d rather trust with a needle, however; I’m sure Atheg would allow one or two to winter here… if only for my peace of mind.” Dori chuckled. Somehow it was comforting that even immortals had their weaknesses.

“Perhaps…” Dori replied, staring at the simple sketch and already seeing the finished project before her mind’s eye. With a light chuckle, Geira left the room; Dori didn’t even notice amidst sketches and ideas, trying to get her thoughts pinned down on paper before they disappeared from her head.

 

In the end, Dori was left with a series of sketches she thought would earn Dís’ approval – including a dress for her long-absent friend, who probably had not brought much finery along on the first journey to Erebor – feeling warm at the thought. She had missed Dís more than she had realised she would, even with all that they had been through and all she had gained on this quest. Dori smiled when she thought of the way Nori had hugged her on the Carrock, somehow melting the last vestiges of hurt between them in relief that the other was safe.

Whistling, Dori went in search of her kin and some food, her rumbling stomach loudly informing her that she had missed lunch in her flurry of plans and sketches, her fingers as smudged with ink and charcoal as Ori’s usually were. When he saw her, Nori grinned, his eyes shooting to her dirty fingers with an unrepentant smirk and a teasing shake of his fingers reminiscent of all the times Dori herself had sent Ori off to wash before allowing him at table. Beside him, Ori just chuckled, seeming deep in conversation with his One though he looked up long enough to wave at her – his own hands clean of ink-stains for once – before returning to his meal, nodding at something Kíli said.

 

* * *

 

 

“Will we be celebrating Khebabnurtamrag?” Balin asked quietly, while the rest of the provisionary council of Erebor filed out of the chamber they used for the infrequent meetings necessary to keep a fledgling Kingdom running smoothly. Thorin’s shoulders tensed slightly – Balin concealed the flinch he couldn’t quite help – but his voice was even when he replied.

“A smaller feast, surely, if we can find provisions. As there will be no Mastery projects to display, however, I don’t know what we would truly be celebrating.”

“A remembrance ceremony for the craftsmen lost to Smaug?” Balin asked, and this time he did flinch, though it was not Thorin’s dark grimace that caused it, but rather the memory of a darkskinned face with a wide smile and golden beads in his beard that he almost thought he could see before him. Skaro had loved Khebabnurtamrag, dragging him around to _all_ the displays of skill on offer, even if they had no connection with either of their crafts. The memory was bittersweet, followed by a thought wondering what Skaro would have made for the year of Smaug’s attack – he’d been annoyingly closed-lipped about it, and Balin had found no drawings in the room they had once shared, nor had he seen anything that looked like it might have been intended as such when he went through Master Sindri’s workshop looking for Skaro’s work.

“That’s…” Thorin paused, catching the flicker of pain on his friend’s face and gentling his voice; he was angry with Balin, though he knew it was unfair to blame the uzugbad for the results of his own cowardice and madness, but that did not make him blind to the thread quality of his voice, nor forget that Balin had ample cause to be upset. He had not gone looking for Hanar’s work, himself, but he knew that Balin had searched for the things crafted by his long-lost beloved’s hands, finding very little proof that Skaro had ever existed. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said quietly, reaching out to squeeze Balin’s shoulder. It was fleeting, but his cousin allowed the small comfort, which meant that they might not remain at odds forever, Thorin thought, still thinking that Balin had let him off far too easily before the Battle. “I’m sure we could scour the old smithies and workshops; find any surviving objects intended for display and repurpose them appropriately. Although Thrór’s mould did not survive Smaug, there must be other things that fared better. Even if we smashed most of the Great Forges.”

Thorin had seen the destruction left behind by Smaug’s thrashing, the falling ore carts and even the massive spouts of water – not to mention the stairs that had nearly killed poor Bilbo – although the clean-up crews had been hard at work removing the rubble, keen to get the heart of the Mountain beating again as soon as possible. Balin’s lips twitched into a half-smile, and Thorin felt hopeful seeing it. Balin’s wound was old and long-since scarred over, but the loss had remained painful – as it had for all who had lost loved ones to the Sacking.

“I’ll have a talk with the quartermaster,” the Uzugbad replied, making a note on the parchment attached to the small wooden board that never seemed to leave his side.

“We could ask Ori to tell parts of the Tale of the Company,” Thorin added, pushing the door open and following his nose towards the Dining Hall, “give him a bit of practise with public speaking.” Balin raised an eloquent eyebrow, but Thorin did not elaborate. Balin chuckled knowingly.

“Aye, the lad could do with some confidence in that area,” he agreed, stroking his beard thoughtfully as he followed the King towards dinner, both their stomachs rumbling with hunger.

 

* * *

 

 

Geira found the small Hobbit staring west across the snow from the ramparts shortly before dinner. The setting sun painted the snow in hues of blue and orange interspersed with shadows, and for a while they stood there watching the interplay of light and dark in silence. Stepping closer, she took up position next to the small Hobbit. The snow layered the ground thickly; the latest blizzard had left banks taller than a Dwarf in some places and a knee-deep layer everywhere else.

The white blanket stretched towards the horizon, looking like it would never melt, but it wouldn’t be more than a few months till spring began reawakening the world; Atheg’s people would see to the Desolation, make it green again. The thought made her smile, remembering the same view from centuries before.

“One day,” she murmured, startling Bilbo, who hadn’t noticed her silent appearance, “this will be filled with wildflowers and grass, the landscape dotted with farmsteads and small woods.” It had been – once upon a time – and Atheg’s best plant-tenders had sworn that they could restore the land, could plough down the ashes of the dead and revitalize the soil, could plant saplings that were growing in the forest at this very moment; birch and beech and oak, firs and other conifers could be transplanted without much trouble. The Forest wouldn’t notice; new saplings sprouted every spring.

“Sounds nice,” he replied, though he didn’t turn away his gaze. Geira smiled. Fields would be planted with seed grain purchased from the Iron Hills or imported from further south in the lands of Men, and her people would be able to feed themselves soon enough. There were still mushroom caves inside the mountain, and once they received fertilizer and adequate soil, the spores that had lain dormant so long would begin to grow again, leaving them able to harvest the food staple within a year. Even a Hobbit might find value in those – she was reminded of Peony’s fierce love of wood ears – the variety of mushrooms that could be grown inside a Mountain with the advances made in light control were nearly endless. For a moment, she allowed herself to dream of meadow wax and saffron milk caps, imagined the subtle rich flavour of chanterelles. Bilbo’s wistful sigh startled her out of her musings.

“But you don’t want to stay in Erebor, do you, Master Hobbit?” she asked. Bilbo sighed, turning to face her.

“No.” The admission was quiet, but her keen ears heard it nonetheless. “I miss my books and my armchair,” he admitted, a wry smile playing on his face, “and my garden and my pantry. The Shire seems to be very far away… and I miss it more than I thought I would. Even Lobelia.”

“Your…?”

“Cousin. She likes to steal my silver.” He laughed, though Geira didn’t see the jest.

“You should stay for the coronation, at least, and the wedding,” she murmured, giving him a small smile. “It wouldn’t do to miss it after all the work you did to ensure it would happen.”

“I gave away the Arkenstone!” Bilbo protested. Geira laughed brightly.

“So you did, Master Burglar,” she teased, “but you also helped reclaim the Lonely Mountain; do not forget that. You are one of the Lords Companion, Bilbo, but more than that… you are their _friend_. Our friend.”

“I’m not sure I’d fit in during a Dwarven wedding,” Bilbo mumbled, his ears reddening.

“Probably not,” Geira admitted, “but I am an Elf, and – aside from the Khuzdul ceremony – the wedding will be attended by both Elves and Men.” Balin hadn’t much liked that, but he had to admit that it’d be rude to invite their neighbours for the coronation and then have them leave on the second day of feasting because of the Wedding. Instead, they would have the ceremony in the common tongue, and when their guests had gone, Thorin and Dwalin would speak vows in Khuzdul at a ceremony some time later. “You will fit in better than them, at the very least,” Geira pointed out, smirking. Bilbo chuckled. “And you will get to see things that my people hold sacred above all others. It has been a very long time since a non-Dwarf was a guest of honour at a Dwarven ceremony of this magnitude.”

“I suppose it would be rude to leave beforehand,” he mumbled, making her smile at him. “I’d need a guide, either way; Gandalf was supposed to take me back to the Shire, but he left when the Elves did.” Geira nodded; though she had not been awake to see the army leave, Thranduil had told her that the Wizard was gone. Bilbo shivered in the chill breeze as the sun finally sank behind the horizon. The hardiness of Elves – they were nearly impervious to temperature changes once fully grown – meant she did not really need the fur cloak she wore, but it was nice to huddle in it anyway. Legolas had left it behind, like a silent apology for all her things having been hauled back to Mirkwood along with the army. Flicking open a fold of the heavy fur-lined fabric, she wrapped it around the small Hobbit with ease.

“Mithrandir could not stay. He wished to confer with the White Council,” Geira said, feeling a stab of guilt for the way she had screamed at him when she did not know better; she owed him an apology at some point. “As for a guide home, Master Baggins, I remember promising to take you back myself when everything was sorted. Seems, to me, that soon it will be.” She gave him a calm smile.

“You… you will?” Bilbo asked in a small voice that didn’t hide his relief, “but you’re meant to be Thorin’s advisor! You can’t leave either!”

“In matters concerning Elves, yes,” she replied, shrugging lightly, “but there are no matters to be discussed that cannot wait for my return.” Atheg would see to that, most likely; Geira had no illusions that he was keen to meet with Thorin again before the scheduled Midsummer meeting – he was showing up for the Coronation, but intended to leave shortly after, returning to the Forest and the people who would spend years in mourning for those who had been lost in the Battle of Five Armies. Shaking off her sudden melancholy, Geira continued outlining her plan, gesturing towards the horizon that hid Mirkwood from view. “We shall borrow some of Atheg’s elks to reach the mountains, and I’d be surprised if we couldn’t find a horse or pony in Rivendell… the journey would not be so long; I have done it before.” Often, in truth, considering how much she enjoyed being in Imladris, feeling at home in the beautiful gardens that reminded her of her first centuries in Eregion.

“If… if you’re sure,” Bilbo said, feeling overwhelmed. “I… could we visit Beorn on the way? And Thranduil’s Halls. I’m thinking of writing a book, you see, and I’d like to take some notes, maybe draw some sketches.” Geira chuckled, her eyes sparkling down at the small hobbit.

“If you wish it, I will even take you far beneath the Misty Mountains and show you the ancient roadworks of my people; it is the route I was walking when we met,” she promised, laughing at the speed with which he accepted.

“But we’ll bring a torch, this time.”


	66. Past and Present

Where **Nurtu Mamahrân **[309]**** had been sombre and nearly silent, **Khebabnurtamrag **[310]**** dawned bright and clear with the sound of drums echoing through the Mountain’s many halls. The drums were followed by the ringing of bells in the great hall, where everyone had gathered for breakfast.

“Khebabnurtamrag is the Wintersend festival used to honour the skills of our smiths, and the name of Mahal, our Father,” Thorin intoned as the bells fell silent, standing at the head table. “In ages past, we have witnessed many displays of skill in our Halls, whichever place we call home; this year is no different!” Motioning towards the grand doors – usually left open, but closed for the occasion – Thorin continued solemnly: “This year, we honour the skills of our forebears, those who were lost to the might of the Dragon.” Raucous applause greeted the statement – not one Dwarf in Erebor was unaware of the tireless work that had gone into searching the guildhalls and workshops to create the exhibition that stretched along the wide Kalm’uthrakh. Walking down the middle of the hall, Dwalin beside him, Thorin felt a curious sense of homecoming. Stopping by the grand doors, he was momentarily grateful that the mechanisms inside the heavy stone doors meant it could be opened by one hand. “This year, we display those crafts that should have delighted our hearts and marked the end of a long winter,” he said, putting his hand on the door handle, as Dwalin did the same on his half of the door. Turning back, he let his voice fill the vast space of the Hall. “This year, we honour those who joined Mahal’s Guard, but left behind the treasures of their hands!”

Throwing the doors wide, perfectly timed – they had gone to bed an hour after everyone else trying to get the timing right – the King and his future Consort revealed the brightly lit King’s Avenue, filled with everything from sculptures, over everyday objects made into works of art, to jewellery, all fine examples of Ereborian craftsmanship. Some pieces were unfinished, of course, Smaug’s attack coming several days before the planned reveal that year, but that only added to the collection in Thorin’s mind; life as it had been, frozen in a single moment of eternity, work that could have been years in the making abandoned in seconds. _How many of the craftsmen represented here had lost their lives then? How many had perished in the days and weeks following, had been forced to turn their skilled hands to work of lesser standards to feed their families, as he had?_

Dwalin took his hand, bringing him out of the dark thoughts of the past with an easy grin. “We should go first, Thorin,” he said, leaning in close with a squeeze of Thorin’s fingers and whispering in what Thorin thought was his sexiest growl, “Will you walk with me, amrâlimê?”

It wasn’t fair to ask such innocent questions in that voice, Thorin thought, his head falling onto Dwalin’s shoulder with a groan, but he rallied, squeezing the warrior’s hand with his own and moving through the doors. They had seen the pieces as they were gathered, even if Geira and Nori had accepted the task of gathering plinths and setting up small cards with the maker’s mark and name next to each item, but Thorin thought that the two must have found more works after he and Dwalin had retired; he did not remember more than half the items now scattered before his eyes.

 

No clean-up work was done that day, the Dwarrow of Erebor content to wander among the long-lost works of their kin, those in the kitchens providing a meal that was far more sumptuous than their current food stores probably warranted, but Thorin had not cared to be frugal today of all days, and no one had suggested it, either. Salted boar meat – the Iron Hills had a thriving population of semi-wild boars, and the hunting had been quite good – had been roasted to perfection, several roasts of venison interspersed with the boar too, courtesy of the Elvenking’s hunters, and Thorin even caught sight of little Bilbo enjoying some of the famously spicy bat-sausages that had originated in the Grey Mountains, but had become a widely enjoyed dish among the diaspora of Durin’s Folk, in Erebor or elsewhere.

Sitting at one of the long tables with Dwalin, accepting well-wishes and end-of-year blessings from any who cared to give them, Thorin felt happy, enjoying the sense of life that seemed to vibrate through the green stone of his home. It might not be the traditional way to observe the festival of crafts, but it was a good day, he thought, leaning against Dwalin’s side with a contented sigh, the last of his venison speared on the tip of his knife.

“Too bad Dís missed this,” Dwalin rumbled, echoing his thoughts. His clear eyes were locked on Kíli and Ori, a few tables over, whose heads were very close together. Thorin chuckled.

“She’ll be glad to see her son happy, Dwalin,” he murmured, eating the delicious morsel of meat with a light groan of enjoyment. Dwalin’s mirth rumbled through his chest, his strong arm wrapping itself around Thorin’s shoulders and tugging him closer.

“I meant the festival, Thorin,” he chuckled, “but you’ve a point about the young’uns, true.”

 

Geira watched the two covertly from her place beside Nori, a small smile playing around her lips. Eventually, what had been broken there would mend – and be stronger for it, she knew, even if she would never have wished such heart ache on either of them. _I wish you could have lived to see your son become the King you raised him to be, sister_ , she thought, raising her cup in a silent toast to the memory of Frís, smiling at her from years passed.

Frís would have been proud, as she was, seeing the skilful way Thorin had made what could so easily have become a day of miserable grief for that which had been lost with the coming of Smaug into a celebration of the lives of his people, the skill of their hands – and an unspoken promise that such skill was not lost forever, would be relearned by those who were left behind. The thought brought a sense of melancholy, wondering how much had been irrevocably lost to death and time; she had seen it before, with the fall of Khazad-dûm, but perhaps Erebor’s stores of knowledge could be reclaimed as the Mountain itself had been.

For the first time in a long time, Geira felt hopeful when she thought about the future of her mother’s kindred.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The herald of Dís’ arrival, almost three days after Khebabnurtamrag, was a large raven, whose coming was like a stick disturbing an anthill. The message, however, delivered in a dry voice during evening meal and accompanied by a longer letter, coincided with the arrival of the snowstorm they had been expecting for a few days, the heavy flakes falling thickly outside as Princess Dís’ message was told and retold. Geira chuckled, accepting the small missive written by Thranduil’s steady flowing hand from the raven and retreating to her own room to read it, feeling warmed by the smiles she received on her way through the mountain. Everywhere she looked, Dwarrow seemed to be scurrying about, chattering excitedly about the impending arrival of the Princess and her caravan.

 

* * *

 

Dori got to work as soon as she heard the news, clothes taking shape between her fingers with almost unnatural speed; Dís was too practical to have brought excess baggage, and she remembered how tattered and torn their own clothes had been when they finally reached Laketown – and they had not travelled in winter!

Nori shook his head at her, but did not object, looking forward to seeing several of those who would soon be arriving; Bofur had been wondering how much his nieces and nephews had grown all the way through dinner, and it was nice to see his old friend so filled with life and joy. Little Bilbo was by turns terrified and intrigued, it seemed, pestering the three ‘ur’s for stories about his long-lost kindred, endearing in his curiosity. Ori, on the other hand, seemed slightly petrified, for all that he had met the Princess several times as Balin’s apprentice. It was ridiculous, Nori thought, Kíli could do far worse than someone like Ori, after all, but his reassurances fell on deaf ears.

 

* * *

 

 

“Amad’s coming!” Kíli was panicking, pacing across the floor of Thorin’s study, when the door opened silently to admit Geira. Fíli looked up from the letter they had been sent from Mirkwood, raising a questioning eyebrow in his brother’s direction. Outside the Mountain, the snowstorm was picking up speed, but inside the inhabited parts of Erebor the howling winds and freezing temperatures were completely unnoticeable.

“I’d advise you not to greet her in that tone of voice, nephew,” Thorin rumbled quietly, sitting on a cosy – after the dust had been knocked out of the stuffing – sofa with Dwalin, who was smoking a pipe with abject delight. Dáin’s people had sent many necessary supplies, but he had also included some of Dwalin’s favourite pipe-weed. The Shire stuff wasn’t bad, Dwalin would admit, but it was not as good as the tobacco he’d become used to while living in the ‘Hills with his adad’s kin. Thorin didn’t necessarily agree, but he, too, had developed a taste for the stronger flavour of Injam-Bitish[311] over the years. Dwalin chuckled to himself, tugging on Thorin’s hand until he could steal a kiss from those soft lips. Thorin had once claimed that the best way to enjoy a good pipe of Injam was to taste it on Dwalin’s lips, and he’d a mind to indulge the whim more often than not, ignoring Kíli’s dismayed groaning. Thorin chuckled into his mouth, probably aware of the direction his thoughts were taking. “Your amad will be very happy to see you, I’m sure.”

With a quiet greeting, Geira claimed a deep armchair, settling in to read a scroll that looked far too dusty to be as engrossing as it appeared. Dwalin felt a sudden wave of longing for Frís, who had had the same way of being present without being a distraction. Noticing his eyes on her, perhaps, she looked up from her reading, giving him a soft smile, tilting her head in silent question. Dwalin shook his head slowly.

“But what if she doesn’t like Ori!?” Kíli cried, looking moments away from pulling at his hair. Fíli chuckled, pointing at the letter as an excuse when Kíli glared stink-eyes at him.

“The lad’s a good heart and a keen mind,” Dwalin rumbled quietly, intervening before it could become another wrestling match; Kíli hadn’t been cleared to do much walking on the leg Master Fari had crafted for him yet, and fighting – even in play – was definitely out in Dwalin’s expert opinion. “Not a bad fighter either,” he continued thoughtfully; Ori had certainly surprised them all during the Quest, replacing his slingshot with Dwalin’s own warhammer during the fracas in Goblin Town, for example. “Easy on the eye, as it goes, even if he’s more his adad than his amad for looks.” All in all, Dwalin thought they were well-matched; Kíli needed someone who was serious but possessed that hidden spark of mischief they’d begun to see in Ori as his confidence rose, while still allowing Kíli the freedom to shine. Someone who wouldn’t feel threatened by standing in his shadow – especially as Erebor slowly began to resemble a real Kingdom again, with a real court, and real bickering dwarrow, whose minds it would eventually fall to Kíli to parse, bringing the sentiments of commoners and noblemen alike to the ears of Fíli in his role as a trusted advisor.

“ _I_ know that!” Kíli retorted, continuing to pace – looking far too much like a young Thorin for Dwalin to keep a smile of fond remembrance from his face – and running his fingers through his loosely tied hair. “But what if Amad doesn’t?! Ori likes to wear soft things; he doesn’t exactly look like the warrior I told her I’d fall in love with…” Kíli trailed off, blushing hard as he caught sight of Fíli’s teasing grin.

“ _Kíli_ ,” Thorin snapped, gentling his tone once he had the young dwarf’s full attention, “as long as Ori makes _you_ happy, your amad will love him.” Fíli nodded, though Kíli didn’t see it. _He_ was quite sure amad would love Ori as much as they all did. Dwalin chuckled in his beard.

“You promise?” Kíli asked, sounding terribly young; Thorin managed not to laugh, remembering his own younger self asking that very thing of Dís after he’d first realised that Dwalin was far more than a friend and bed-mate to him – of course, he had had the added worry of succession on his shoulders, too, which Kíli did not – but Dís had dispelled his every fear. Thorin could do no less for her son, for the young dwarf he loved like his own pebble.

“ **Sagl mabekh, mulmalum**. **Aban ai-kâmin, Dís zatagyidiya.**[312]” Thorin swore solemnly, rising from his seat to wrap his arm around Kíli and bring him in for a hug. Truthfully, he had been more worried about Dori’s reaction to the news, but the tailor had surprised them all with her generosity and understanding; he knew Kíli had expected to be met with harsh rules and curfews when he went to speak to Dori unofficially, but Ori’s sister had just smiled and kissed his forehead, giving her unofficial permission for their courtship.

“Besides, Amad’s bound to be far more upset about us adopting an Elf as our aunt,” Fíli grinned, “than whether your One likes to knit.”

“ **Yazârnu sanzigil makhaha nimthurul 'abban** ,[313]” Dwalin rebuked, making Kíli stick out his tongue at Fíli, who looked chastised. In her chair, Geira snorted lightly, but did not comment; Dwalin wondered if she, too, felt apprehensive about meeting the last of her sister’s children. Frerin would have enjoyed the whole thing immensely, he thought, the intrigue and amusement of adopting an Elf into the Royal Family, but Dís… he was less certain what she would say. Knowing his good-sister, she’d be wary initially; coloured, as Thorin had been, by many years of disdain for Elves in general, and anyone affiliated with Thranduil in particular, but she would also be grateful beyond measure for the lives of her kin, which would weigh in favour of the peredhel.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Fíli said, looking petulant, “I like Ori!”

“You are a Prince of Erebor now, Fíli,” Thorin smiled wryly, putting his hand on Fíli’s shoulder with an encouraging smile, “you will be held to different standards – both of you – than when we lived in Ered Luin.” For once, Dwalin remembered Thraín as he had been in Erebor, one of the few times the Prince had been the one to deal with the dwarfling shenanigans of his sons. Thraín had added a long lecture on propriety to the admonishment, Dwalin remembered – part of a long scolding for some manner of mischief Thorin and Frerin had got him mixed up in. Returning to his seat, Thorin accepted his pipe from Dwalin, settling himself beneath his strong arm. Dwalin squeezed him gently, receiving a kiss to his temple in return.

“As long as _you_ don’t start pestering me about succession,” Fíli grumbled, “because I’ve already had _that_ talk from Dáin who ‘just wanted to mention’ the beauties of his court who were expecting to meet me at your coronation.” Thorin chuckled. Dwalin pressed a kiss into his hair.

“Dáin is wily, **gulmalum**[314], and though he is not wrong that succession of our Line will fall to you, you’ve time yet to decide,” he promised, “and I promise you, when you find the one who makes your heart beat faster, I won’t care if she’s the daughter of a nobledwarf or a washer-woman.”

“Do you have a One?” Kíli asked, wondering. Considering he’d be unaware of his own capacity – though he almost couldn’t imagine _not_ feeling the strange connection and pull towards Ori that hummed like gentle harp-strings in his soul – he wondered if Fíli was the same.

“I don’t know,” Fíli admitted, feeling wistful. He remembered little of his parents interacting with each other, but he knew _they_ had been One, and – bar the influence of goldsickness – he had watched the way his Uncles acted all his life with a distinct feeling of envy, wanting that connection with someone. “I’ve never dreamt about anyone, or felt particularly drawn to someone.” He shrugged. He had had a few flings, back in Ered Luin – not that he’d admit as much to his parental figures unless pressed – but they had been nothing serious.

“Sometimes, you don’t know even after you’ve spent years beside someone,” Thorin soothed. Dwalin felt a light flush spread across his cheeks, but neither lad seemed to notice.

“Or maybe you’ll simply fall in love, Fíli, there’s nothing wrong with that.” Dwalin murmured.

“But… I’ll be the only one in the family without a One, then!” Fíli objected. “Even _Aunt Geira_ has her One, and he’s not even our _species_!” he grumbled, falling back into his chair and tossing Dís’ letter down on the table. Kíli snapped it up; he’d been too agitated to read it over Fíli’s shoulder. Dwalin noticed the way Geira stiffened in her chair, but the warning squeeze – was he the only one who’d noticed her entrance? – came too late to stop Thorin replying.

“And that has caused her more pain than any of us will ever understand, **gulmalum** ,” Thorin rumbled, squeezing Dwalin’s hand.

“There is a way to tell, Fíli,” she said, looking up sharply from her scroll. The three Durins startled, whipping their heads towards the chair; Dwalin noted the heat creeping up Thorin’s neck, and Fíli’s cheeks turned pale then scarlet in rapid succession. “But it takes a lot of time and Song to search your Stone for the thin strands that connect you to your One.” Dwalin wasn’t the only one who boggled at that, Fíli looked positively gobsmacked. “Once, it was a ritual of adulthood, but the custom was lost with Khazad-dûm.”

“Really?” Kíli asked, intrigued – Dwalin thought he looked like he wanted to run off to find Ori to take notes; the scribe treated Geira as a font of ancient knowledge, wishing to record all that she knew even if he restrained himself for fear of being a nuisance. “Did you do it?”

“No.” Geira’s face was stony, even cold, but she softened at the stricken look on Kíli’s face. “I never wanted to have a One,” she whispered, looking tortured, “I knew that much even before I was full-grown.”

“But… why?” Kíli continued, and Dwalin felt a terrible sense of foreboding when her smile turned sad in response.

“My parents were Ones,” she said, “and their love was as great as any I have seen since; beautiful and tragic. If you had seen as I did, the grief of loving a mortal when you are not, watched your father nearly destroyed by the loss of your mother… watched my mother grieve for the inevitability of their parting, the shadow hanging over even their happiest days.” Swallowing, sounding as though she was far away from Erebor in thought, Geira continued softly, “How could I doom someone to such despair?” Kíli looked as though he regretted asking, and Dwalin felt helpless, clutching Thorin’s remaining hand tightly. “Love is beautiful, Kíli, but I was determined to avoid such grief if I could. To my father, my mother was a brief light – a comet blazing across the starlit heavens – followed by endless night. Their love was beautiful… and then it was gone, and only the memory of light remained.” Shaking her head slowly, Geira blinked herself back to the present. “I did not want that to be my fate; if I had a One, let it be unrealised, let me spare us both that grief by never seeking it.”

“You’re not the only one, Fíli,” Thorin rallied, trying to salvage the mood in the room. Dwalin felt a moment of gratitude; those blue eyes had looked so tormented. “My _parents_ weren’t One, nor were great-uncle Grór and Katla, nor cousin Náin and Rádveig.” Thorin ticked off on his fingers, “Glóin and Vár aren’t Ones, though you’d never know it to look at them, nor were Gróin and Hulda. Even cousin Dáin and his Thorunn weren’t, as far as I know. You’ve plenty of cousins who simply fell in love and married; there’s no reason to believe it is a worse fate than finding your One.”

“In many ways, it might be a kinder fate, depending on what your life brings,” Dwalin mumbled. Thorin squeezed his hand again, tilting his head up for a kiss. They hadn’t shared the full tale of Dwalin’s trip to the Stones with anyone except Geira, Nori, and Bifur, but Dwalin knew they’d both have nightmares about it for years to come. “That connection runs deep, yes, but it can be dangerous.” Dwalin shot Fíli a gimlet stare. “You should ask your auntie to tell you the story of the first King Thorin of Durin’s Folk,” he rumbled gently, “mayhap you will learn something from it.” He had only half remembered it when they reached the Mountain, but he’d thought to ask Ori to look for any pertinent records anyhow, and the scribe had delivered a long drily written scroll that had nonetheless been more informative than Dwalin had quite wished for.

“My Thorin’s fate was one of tangled threads, Fíli,” Geira sighed, putting down the scroll on her lap and turning her blue gaze on the young Prince, who fidgeted slightly. Dwalin drew a silent breath of relief; her eyes looked normal, now, albeit melancholy. “Dwalin is correct that finding his One did not bring him much happiness – in fact, it nearly tore apart our people…” she paused, shaking her head lightly. “I urge you to be patient, Fíli; what fate Vairë will weave of yours will reveal itself in time.”

“But-” Fíli began, but the far-off closed look of her face killed his protest unspoken.

“Some things are better left until they reveal themselves to you,” Geira smiled gently. “My Thorin’s life might have been much different if he had never dreamed of Embla, if she had not known to find him – even if she had simply arrived years after she did…”

Thorin had been young but determined to go through the ritual Fíli now asked about; a sudden flash of resemblance between them that made her smile. She had been wary, herself, but Náin had allowed it, and Thorin had spent four days meditating in the Stones. She remembered the smile on his face when he came out, the knowledge clear in his blue eyes, and part of her had been sad to see it, to count him among those unfortunates who would have to wait for their One to appear, once it became clear that the dam was not from Khazad-dûm, or any of the smaller settlements along the range of the Misty Mountains. Of course, barely two years after that day, they had left Khazad-dûm behind, fleeing the terror that stalked its halls, and though Thorin’s dreams continued, survival became his first priority. If Embla had not shown up of her own accord, Geira thought it likely that Thorin would never have met her, his duties tying him firmly to the Grey Mountains, and his honour too powerful a part of him to make him abandon the wife he had taken to pursue a dream, no matter how much he longed to.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Fíli replied thoughtfully, though Geira thought she heard doubt in his voice still. She shrugged it off; it was not for her to decide what a grown Dwarf should do with himself, after all, no matter how much she had come to care for all of them since that fateful meeting beneath the peaks of the Hithaeglir. “In any case, Amad will be far too busy with Kíli and Ori to think about my future children!” Smiling widely at Kíli, who groaned once more, Fíli stuffed dried leaves into his own pipe, lighting it contentedly to the sound of Thorin and Dwalin’s chuckles.

 

 

[309] Day of the Burned Ones  
[310] Forge Day Feast  
[311] Greatest leaf [of] ancient silver.  
[312] No question, speedy(nickname). Stone on earth, Dís will rejoice. (idiomatic expression meaning certainly)  
[313] Even mithril is found among stone. (Riches or beauty can come from humble origins.)  
[314] Wee glint (nickname).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on the current timeline:  
> Dís and the Fellowship entered Mirkwood on Feb 4 and arrived in the Halls of Thranduil late on Feb 14th; their route was different to the Company's and much shorter.  
> Khebabnurtamrag (held on the 19th of 'afnu'khazâd) takes place on Feb 14th that year (due to lunar calendars, the RL date changes yearly) and Dís' Raven arrives on Feb 17th. The snowstorm that Thranduil warned them about hits the Woodland Realm first, on the eve of Feb 15th, though it reaches Erebor by midnight.


	67. Laughter and Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fellowship leaves Mirkwood

The Dwarrow were pleasant enough company, Thranduil thought, and the presence of so many young ones brought smiles to the faces of his people, their laughter lightening the hearts of those who had lost most in the fight for Erebor. The little red-headed girl seemed particularly curious, often found climbing into laps or tugging on clothes until someone gave her a story. The sight made him long for the days when his sons had been that small, even as it also made him miss Nínimeth more fiercely than usual. The dwarflings – the younger ones – were most often found in the company of Orhel and Ferion, who were delighted to have new playmates, running around under the careful watch of Orhel’s adar, Dúmon, and Lady Athalrún.

 

As the snows continued to blanket the Elvenking’s Halls, Dís found herself grateful that Thranduil had insisted their group stay, rather than attempt to brave the howling winds she could hear outside, most often dumping a foot of snow each night.

Some of her Dwarrow volunteered to help shovel the accumulated snow away from the Main Gate, and on the only sunny day during their stay, the Elves enticed the younger ones into running on metal skates on the river that flowed through the caverns. The ice was thick and hard; the water frozen solid for more than a moon already, and Dís felt her heart soar at the sound of the dwarflings laughing. They had not complained – no more than could be expected, at least – but it was a _very_ long trip for such young legs and she knew that the respite was welcome in more than one way.

“We do not have many elflings born,” Thranduil said quietly, silently walking atop the snow until he came to a stop next to her post, watching Fjelarun and Borkur laughing as they tumbled on the slippery ice. “It is nice to hear the laughter of young hearts fill our caverns.” For a moment, she wondered if he had read her mind, but dismissed the thought as a silly notion.

“Our numbers have been declining for decades,” Dís admitted quietly, “Athalrun has some Hobbit-blood in her; those who know believe it the reason she has borne so many dwarflings safely.”

Nodding at the two young Elves, no taller than their new Dwarven friends, who tried to keep their balance, swerving around the two Dwarrow, he smiled. “Orhel and Ferion are currently the only elflings in my Halls,” he continued. “In about a month, we shall see the birth of the third elfling this century, when Seregiel brings her second daughter into the world.”

“Third?!” Dís boggled; considering how many had died in the recent battle, let alone the two Elves that had been lost to the spiders since, three elflings in a century seemed too few by far. Even her own people had more than that in a _year_ and she had thought _their_ diminishing birth rates worrisome.

“The Elves of Greenwood have always been the most fruitful of Elven peoples; I suspect it is the Nandorin blood,” Thranduil shrugged, “but the Darkness that lays so heavily over parts of my Realm makes us less likely to desire children.”

Dís did not quite know how to respond; her amad had told her stories of Mirkwood as a green place, but it was hard to imagine the trees green with leaves when they stood before her with their bare branches a forbidding grim sight, dark and spindly like fingerbones against the slate grey winter sky above. They had traversed areas she would have called dead entirely, even though the lands surrounding the Elvenking’s caverns bore faint traces of life, waiting for spring to wake up the world.

 

The snow continued to fall, making their dwarven guests anxious. Legolas sympathised with them. Erebor was so tantalizingly close, yet so far away; to be trapped here, even as honoured guests afforded all hospitality, felt like a particularly cruel punishment from the Valar.

For himself, he was eager to set off too, wondering what he would find when he returned to the Mountain; hardly daring to hope that Dís’ interpretation of events would prove correct. The dwarrowdam, who reminded him at once of her mother and brother, was a wellspring of information about dwarven courting that Nori’s explanation had skated lightly past, concerned with practicalities more than the historical reasons behind each step; Dís obligingly spent hours telling stories that made his own actions seem more sensible, even if their version of courtship still seemed hopelessly convoluted.

Ruthlessly silencing the small voice that still doubted his chances of success, Legolas set himself to practising his chosen craft with fervour.  

 

* * *

 

Thranduil felt amused by their guests; the little Fjelarun was surprisingly fearless when it came to disturbing him, and part of him couldn’t help but remember his own sons in their early years every time he heard her bold voice ask a question. Several of the Dwarrow Princess Dís had brought were studying the columns and construction of the expanded Halls of his realm; Thranduil wanted to laugh when he heard one of them wonder why the Hall of Fire had markings similar to those his old Master had described as originating in Khazad-dûm. A sudden pang went through him, hearing the gruff voice of Durin in her fourth body laying out the plans before his eyes, managing to make his mind understand the drawings she and Rhonith showed him enough to give his permission for the proposed alterations. A shudder went through him. Little Fjelarun’s innocent questions on their first night had brought memories of Nínimeth to the surface of his mind, and he did not like to think of her as she was in those days, a dark spectre of grief, sleeplessly wandering the halls as the Dwarrow worked to make a home for their people that would replace Amon Lanc – Dol Guldur, now, he thought, a bad taste filling his mouth at the thought of the blackened stones of the ruin, emanating Darkness.

Seeking solitude, he found himself standing on the promontory he still thought of as Nínimeth’s rock, staring across the barren branches and the white-covered conifers, the deep snow-blue shadows of his Realm. For a moment, he wondered what she would say to the last two thousand and more years – would she have approved of the way he has raised their youngest son? – wondered if the infrequent letters he had sent over the years had brought her solace or grief. Círdan was a distant kinsman of his naneth, and the shipwright usually allowed chests of letters to be stowed on the ships bound for the West – even though replies could not be sent back, Thranduil still faithfully ensured that _his_ words made their way across the Sea, praying that the pages would help ameliorate her anger. He no longer believed she would not be angry with him, but he _hoped_ that the steadfastness thus displayed would help, somehow. If nothing else, he tried to ensure her that she remained in his heart, always, even if he had not fulfilled the promise he once made her and joined her as swiftly as he had desired.

“I thought I should find you here, Ada,” Legolas said quietly, interrupting Thranduil’s self-recriminations. The Elvenking startled, whirling on his heel too swiftly to hide the flash of guilt on his face.

“Did you need me, ionneg?” he replied, taking some solace in the small flicker of a smile that always crossed Legolas’ face at the moniker with a silent thought towards his absent love that _this_ , this was the reason he had not left, _this_ Leafling who had needed him so badly, who _still_ seemed to need his guidance.

“Princess Dís’ supplies have almost been packed,” Legolas replied, “but that is not why I came here.”

“Why, then?” Thranduil asked, too stubborn to lean against the Maplewood Sceptre in his right hand.

“You always come here when you think of… her,” Legolas said, that ever-present reluctance to speak the name Nínimeth or the title Naneth no longer quite so painful as it had once been – but painful enough. “Naneth,” he added, coming to a stop next to Thranduil, staring across the whiteness in silence.

“I think of her often,” Thranduil admitted softly, “but I come here for solace, when the agony of being without her becomes too much. She loved this place; even before we made a home in these caves, this was a spot Nínimeth had claimed for her own.”

“Do you think…” Legolas paused, the tips of his ears glowing slightly. Thranduil smothered the smile as he guessed what his son was thinking. “Do you think she would like me?” For a moment, he was surprised – that had not been the direction he assumed his lovelorn offspring’s thoughts to be taking – but Thranduil rallied, forcing himself to consider the notion with the gravity Legolas needed.

“She would,” he finally said. “She would compare you to her Adar, Drauchir, who was as skilled a hunter as you are – I often wished you had had the chance to meet him, in truth – though she would also see the echoes of my own naneth that I see in you; and she would spend hours needling me about all the ways we are alike, though she would praise you for the same reasons.”

Legolas chuckled.

“Nínimeth would be very proud of you, Lassig,” Thranduil added, “she _loves_ you; I must believe she has regained herself on the shores of Aman, remembered how excited she was to welcome you to this world; even if she has not seen you grow up in anything but drawings, has read the letters I have sent her, she is your naneth.”

“How do you know?” Legolas whispered, so quietly Thranduil wasn’t sure he meant for him to hear the words. Lifting his hand, he slowly traced the shell of Legolas’ ear, curving his palm down to cup his jaw and turn his face towards him.

“Because I do love you, ionneg,” he replied, “and I know her heart.” Moving a thumb to wipe away the single tear that had escaped Legolas’ eye, Thranduil smiled gently. “And if you are worried what she would say about your current… endeavour,” he smiled wryly – Legolas’ mouth quirked in a half smile in return, “do not be. Nínimeth and I both love Rhonith as kin – she did not call herself naneth to Rhonith when she came here, but only because she did not wish to replace Narví in her heart. In truth, she was wroth with me for a time for taking the title of Atheg to her, but it did not mean she disdained the relationship.”

“So…” Legolas began slowly, hesitant. “She would approve of my asking Rhonith to be my… my wife?”

Thranduil smiled. “Nínimeth would approve of you marrying a _tree_ if it made you happy. That you have chosen her beloved sister would only make her joy that much sweeter. She was a great believer in love, my Nínimeth; in truth, the only thing she might find puzzling is the length of time it has taken you to work up the nerve.” He did not chuckle, too dignified to call out his son’s blush in such a way, but Thranduil felt the impulse, hearing an echo of Nínimeth’s laughter in his ear as he spoke. For the elleth who had decided she would be his wife – even before he had known it – within five days of knowing him, Legolas’ hesitance would be amusing indeed, even if she had awaited this news since the day he was born.

“I’m glad.” Legolas stated. “That she would approve, I mean,” he amended, flushing slightly. Thranduil hummed softly.

Together, they watched the glittering white blanket that covered their home, enjoying the crisp silence of snow for a long time before returning inside.

 

* * *

 

 

The Company had been farewelled cordially, by a small group of Elves, but the leaving of Dís’ caravan was an altogether greater spectacle. Not only had the dwarflings wormed their way into the hearts of many of the inhabitants of the Halls, but the leaving party itself was much larger; definite proof that the Dwarrow were returning home, and many had turned out to see them off.

The sleds they had made for the crossing of the Misty Mountains had been refurbished and improved during their stay in the Halls. Enough iron had been found to make runners for five sleds, and the wooden boards and beams they had used for the construction had been examined for damage and replaced where necessary. The sleds would be pulled by elk, now, instead of Dwarrow, and a few more animals had been loaded with food supplies.

Legolas stood beside Talagor, overseeing the final preparations in concert with Nýr the caravan leader, ensuring that those of his people who were tagging along until they left the forest – Curulhénes would be leading a joined hunting party with Magoldir in his absence – were well-equipped for their own journey. He wasn’t worried, his people were well-trained and although he felt guilty for leaving them, no one had voiced any protests, which made him think that his infatuation had never been as well-hidden as he had believed. An undercurrent of excitement and dread mingled together thrummed through his soul, thinking about Rhonith waiting in the Mountain, wondering if she missed him – if she had realised what he was trying to do, yet – his thoughts like hunting dogs chasing their own tails in his head. The closer he came to seeing her again, the faster his mind whirled, stuck on alternating between what-ifs.

“Do give the Lady Rhonith my love,” Thranduil said, interrupting Legolas’ spiralling thoughts, “and tell Thorin that I shall be looking forwards to our next meeting.”

“Yes, Ada,” Legolas replied, silently grateful that Thranduil had spoken.

Around him, the rest of the intermingled parties were making final checks, getting ready to ride out – the Elves were all mounted, though the Dwarrow remained on foot; Glóin’s stories had discouraged them from accepting the offer of mounts. Legolas hid a smile at the thought – watching Glóin mount Celegrandir had been one of the most amusing things he had seen this century – and swung himself onto Talagor’s back, rubbing his neck slowly. Aithiel had been brought along pulling one of the sleds though he meant for her to become Rhonith’s mount once they arrived in Erebor. He could feel the first whispers of Echuir – Stirring – from the seemingly-dead forest around them; soon, Ethuil would follow, turning their lands green and lush once more.

“Farewell, Princess Dís,” Thranduil said, turning to nod his final greeting at the dwarrowdam who returned it gracefully.

“King Thranduil,” she replied, “I thank you for your generous aid and assistance. May our renewed friendship continue to grow between our two houses.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dís’ first real view of the Lonely Mountain, leaving the stark and oppressive shadows of Mirkwood’s winter silence was breath-taking in its simplicity. A solitary peak, dark against a field of snow. At first it seemed small, and yet it was as if it speared the sky. Beside her, Athalrún’s young daughter gasped. Fjelarún – who had taken such a shine to Dís that she could usually be found in the Princess’ shadow – stared wide-eyed at the peak.

Her group continued making their way east slowly, across the snowy plain of the Desolation. By the time they made camp, Erebor seemed as if it could cut the afternoon sky in half and yet the sky had never seemed bigger to her eyes than it did in that moment of contrast. She ducked her head shyly, wondering if her companions would see the awe and longing on her face. This mountain was like nothing she had ever seen, and it called to something in her very bones.

Perhaps this feeling was what Thorin had meant when he told her he was yearning for Erebor.

The thought made her smile.

 

“You do not remember it?” Legolas asked quietly, his feet making no sound on the snow; all the Elves seemed capable of running atop it, but it didn’t annoy her as much as it had during their perilous trek across the mountains.

“I was too young,” she admitted, vaguely aware that the rest of her caravan had halted with her; some were weeping into their beards. “It looks… like a story.” Legolas nodded, and Dís didn’t care that he probably did not understand what she meant, unable to explain the sense of it herself. It was like she was welcome, weariness of the journey lifting from her soul.

It was her _home_.

Like the memory of a half-forgotten lullaby it stretched before her, promising welcoming warmth and protection.

“Welcome home, cousin,” Glóin said, his usually boisterous voice subdued by the sombre feel of the moment. Dís reached out, squeezing Vár’s hand. Her friend squeezed back silently; Dís knew she was thinking of the small preserved body safely kept on her sled, the eyes that would never see this sight. For herself, Dís longed for a long-lost melody, the voice of a mischievous dwarf who had died before his time, that had once wound itself through every strand of her soul. Part of her thought that she could still feel him, as though she could turn her head or reach out with her hand and find him standing beside her, but her rational mind had long-since accepted that Víli was gone. She still wanted to reach, to hold his hand and hear him tell her that their sons were in that mountain, waiting for them.

“We’ll press on for a few more hours,” Dís decided, suddenly too excited to stop for the day, even though the sun was already low in the sky. Glóin chuckled, but Dís knew he’d understand; all of them would want to be as close to home as they could get before halting for the night. With a short command from Nýr, everyone picked up their feet, leaving the shelter of the dark trees.

 

* * *

 

Crossing the Desolation instead of heading for Laketown was only possible because the Elvenking had supplied them so generously, but it cut their travel time down considerably. The sleds they had built while the weather forced them to remain in his Halls were packed with food, and Dís felt quiet pride in the skill of her smiths; the Elvenking’s forges were constructed by her kinsmen, she was sure, but they had not been well-stocked, and the smiths had had to work carefully to create enough runners for the sleds. The sleds themselves had been carved by some of Thranduil’s craftsmen – working with wood was apparently an acceptable pastime among the Silvans, even if smithing was less widely practised – and considering the speedy construction they were beautiful, carved with imagery of Erebor and Dwarrow journeying towards the Mountain. Dís had recognised the silhouettes of Thorin’s Company – the smallest was obviously the Hobbit, whom she was looking forward to meeting – amused by the thought of what her brother would say to see himself depicted by an Elf, of all things. The elks who had been made to pull them – a few spare elks were used as riding mounts by the Elves who ranged patrols around them, looking out for spiders – meant the Dwarrow were mostly unencumbered by their belongings, free to concentrate on moving through the snow that still lay heavy on the ground.

Dís still found herself wanting to run, to leave the caravan behind and make her way to the Mountain as swiftly as possible, to see for herself that those who had left her behind nearly a year hence were truly alive inside.

 

* * *

 

Walking onto the battlements and staring towards the forest had become part of her morning routine as she regained her strength, but since the letter from the Forest concerning Dís’ imminent arrival, Rhonith was joined by one or the other Prince Under the Mountain on her walks, pestering her with questions about what she could see on the horizon.

“People,” she said, the words coming out as a quiet puff of frost that hung in the air for the space of a heartbeat before she whirled, catching Fíli’s arm. “They’re here!” she exclaimed, feeling laughter bubble through her as the words sunk in, splitting his face in a smile. “Fíli, they’re here!”

Together, they ran down from the watch-post, spreading the news as they went, until the mountain rung with the word that the Princess was in sight.

 

* * *

 

Days later, they were so close they could nearly taste the beverages Dís expected to toast her welcome. Everyone was weary, but excited, spirits lifted by the thought of imminent arrival.

“Faster, Fíli, faster!” a female voice cried in the distance, breathless with laughter. “I see them, I see them!” Dís came to a halt, her mouth closing on her surprise with an audible snap. Coming towards them across the snow was a peculiar sled, but she easily recognised the blond Dwarf who was pushing it as her oldest son, despite the blue eye-patch he wore. The fur-clad person on the bed of the sled, however, was a stranger, her smile wide in her face as she pointed towards their travel-worn group. The wind was towards them, carrying their joyful voices through the air. Dís’s heart constricted. Her son. She hardly dared believe her eyes.

“I’m going as fast as I can.” Fíli huffed, but he too was laughing, happy. Dís felt her heart speed up at the sound – so much like his father’s now that she felt the lack of Vili’s presence keenly once more. “I told you we should have borrowed Dáin’s ram.”

“After what happened when Kíli tried to race with them?” His passenger giggled. “Dáin would have insisted on coming along, and you know it!” She lifted a hand, dressed in fur gloves and waved towards the caravan. Dís half-heartedly waved back. She did not know what to think of the girl, beardless face revealing wind-kissed red cheeks and, as the sled swiftly closed on them, sparkling Durin-blue eyes, like Thorin’s.

With a whoosh of displaced snow, Fíli made a hard turn and stopped the sled. Jumping agilely from the back of it, he ran to his Amad, picking her up and swinging her though the chilly air with a whoop of joy.

“My son,” Dís whispered, feeling strangely sad. Her boy had obviously grown up that last little bit of her sunny dwarfling hardened and matured into someone who felt for a moment like a complete stranger.

“Amad,” he croaked, and suddenly he was her little boy again, even if he had grown, had suffered far away from her sheltering arms.

Dís hugged him tight to her. “Fíli…” she whispered, holding him out at arm’s length to look at him. He had always looked like his father, and Frerin both, and for a moment, she felt like their echoes were staring at her from the eyes of her son. “Oh, my darling boy, I have missed you,” she whispered, hugging him tight.

“I missed you too, Amad,” he replied shakily, as he pressed his forehead against hers, breathing in her scent.

 

Rhonith remained by the sled, studying the caravan that had come to a slow halt before her. The faces that she did not recognise were caught between staring at her and staring at Dís and Fíli, though most of them seemed content to let mother and son have a moment of privacuy in favour of staring at her. The fur-lined hood of Legolas’ cloak covered her ears and hair, providing protection from the cold wind but also disguising her heritage. Waving to the small redheaded girl in front, she caught sight of another – familiar – red mane, her head snapping up and the hood falling off.

“Glóin!” Rhonith exclaimed. “I did not expect to see you back until next Durin’s Day!”

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, lass!” Glóin blustered, pushing his way through the crowd. “Aye, well, there’s a story for telling, but not out here in the cold.” He rumbled, wrapping his arms around her in a quick hug. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Vár, and my wee lad, Gimli.” Glóin smiled, putting his arms around his beloved wife and son. “As well as my wee daughter Várdís.” Vár nodded, but little Várdís was kept strapped to her chest for warmth, snug beneath her outer layers of clothes so she was not visible. “Everyone doing fine in Erebor?”

“ **Sullu iglukhul ya bark ra targ** ,” she replied with a smile, nodding regally at the collected Dwarrow who seemed even more surprised now, more than a few darting glances at her pointy ears. Rhonith blushed lightly.

“Who is this?” Princess Dís said, tearing herself away from her oldest son to stare at Rhonith.

Rhonith stiffened, feeling suddenly nervous to meet Frís’ daughter, but she turned to face her, standing tall and returning Dís’ scrutiny with her face mildly interested but mostly blank.

“Oh! Amad, I want you to meet Amadel’s sister!” Fíli said loudly, as though he suddenly remembered that his mother was present, staring at a Khuzdul-speaking stranger with barely concealed suspicion. Rhonith smiled gently, her eyes roving across Dís – busy cataloguing all the small details that made up her niece. The mahogany hair was tightly braided for travelling, her clothes worn but cared-for, her weary blue eyes a mirror of Thorin’s, narrowed in suspicion before widening in shock at Fíli’s introduction.

“…Sister?” Dís replied; whatever she had expected as an introductory title, this was apparently _not_ it. For the first time, Rhonith wondered what Thorin has said of her in his letters; had Dís had no warning?

“Adopted,” she clarified. Holding her hair back, she revealed her finely pointed ears, watching as the wheels in Dís’ head worked. “I am Geira, daughter of Narví, at your service.”

 

Suddenly it clicked: _this_ was the Elf’s ‘ _Rhonith’_. Dís shook her head disbelievingly. Until this point she had been convinced the girl was a dwarrowdam, even though her facial features were more delicate than any dwarrowdam Dís had known.

“Ai, Rhonith, you should be in the Mountain.” Over Dís’s shoulder came the exasperated but fond voice of Legolas. She stiffened slightly, but Rhonith beamed at him and Fíli offered a friendly nod the Elf returned with a fond grin.

“It is clear, my son,” she murmured, as the two Elves began arguing – or perhaps flirting? – in their own tongue. Dís didn’t catch more than a few words; they spoke too swiftly for her seldom-practised ears to follow. “You have much to tell me.”

 


	68. Reunions

With the incurable curiosity of the young, Fjelarún clambered onto the sled, against her sister’s every attempt to corral her. Burrowing under the fur blanket, her head suddenly popped up against Geira’s chest, quickly followed by her arm waving at Borkur, as she made herself comfortable with a grin. Dís stared, half-worried, but the half-dwarf simply smiled at the small dwarfling.

“Hello, _pinig_ , what’s your name?” she asked gently. Fjelarún’s courage suddenly deserted her, looking up at the blue eyes above her silently.

“Bombur’s daughter, Fjelarún,” Glóin introduced loudly, making Fíli and Dís look up. Geira smiled at them, and Dís felt a sudden kinship with her, recognising the shape of her nose in the Elven face.

“It seems we’ll have a passenger along, Auntie,” Fíli smiled. Dís tried not to feel jealous of the easy familiarity her son treated this elf with, but it was difficult.

“I’m sure Legolas would take me back to Erebor, if you’d like to walk with your Amad, Fíli,” Geira replied, smiling at Dís, whose fingers were still wrapped tightly around Fíli’s, not quite ready to let go of her first-born.

“Do you even know how to push such a sled?” Fíli asked, turning to look at the Elf who had proven far more capable than Dís would have expected of an Elven Prince.  He had had no need to worry, however, as Legolas swiftly secured his elk to the front of it by means of a harness that had been hiding beneath the fur and jumped onto the back of the sled with a cheeky grin that would not have been out of place on Kíli’s face.

Fjelarún had fallen asleep, only the copper curls on her head showing above the fur blanket snugly wrapped around her. “We’ll take this little one to her adad… it’d be a shame to wake her,” Geira said, smiling softly at the small face that pressed against her chest. “Does anyone else want a go?” she asked, looking at the small dwarflings who were staring at Fjelarún with undisguised envy. “With Tálagor to pull the sled, we need not worry so much about the weight.”

Not one to remain behind if Fjelarún dared to go, Blákur pulled Athalrún’s sleeve once. She seemed indecisive for a moment, but nodded permission, letting him scamper under the furs, the tip of his nose barely poking out above the blankets. Handing her smallest daughter to the Elf, Athalrún smiled her thanks as Geira wrapped her own warm cloak around the pebble. Following his siblings, Borkur burrowed under the blankets, waving at his amad. It had been a long walk for their youngest members, even though they had been allowed to sit on the carts for most of the journey. Gimli looked almost jealous that he was considered ‘too adult’ to join them, making Glóin chuckle. Dís hid her own smile at the sight.

“Let’s go, then,” she said, the muttered groans of burdens being picked up again filling the air. A wave of her arm got the caravan moving again, making its slow inexorable way across the white landscape. No one complained, really; everyone was just as eager to get there as Dís herself, but she knew the feeling of being so close the last stretch seemed never-ending – she had felt it before, returning to Ered Luin, though it was much stronger now. Usually, she would have encouraged someone to sing a song, chase away the fatigue and lift their spirits, but she did not feel like singing, instead feeling the strong warm grip of her son’s hand as she stared at her new home growing closer with each step.

_Under the Mountain dark and tall  
The King has come unto his hall!_

As though she had read Dís’ mind, the elleth on the sled began singing.

_His foe is dead, the Worm of Dread,  
And ever so his foes shall fall._

The melody was familiar, the same one Thorin had sung before he left for the Lords’ Council; the same song Dís had heard her parents and kinsmen sing throughout her life, a song originating in their first days of wandering. The words, however, were strange, though the clear silvery singing voice of this Geira was pleasing to the ear; less Elvish than some of the singers she had heard in Rivendell, at least.

 _The sword is sharp, the spear is long,_  
_The arrow swift, the Gate is strong;_  
_The heart is bold that looks on gold;_  
_The dwarves no more shall suffer wrong._

_The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,_  
_While hammers fell like ringing bells_  
_In places deep, where dark things sleep,_  
_In hollow halls beneath the fells._

Geira continued to sing as their group walked onwards, the sled easily keeping pace with the walking dwarrow. Legolas once more demonstrated his people’s ability to walk overtop the snow, which Dís still envied, even though most of her mind was occupied with the mountain before her and the loved ones she’d find inside.

 _On silver necklaces they strung_  
_The light of stars, on crowns they hung_  
_The dragon-fire, from twisted wire_  
_The melody of harps they wrung._

_The mountain throne once more is freed!_  
_O! wandering folk, the summons heed!_  
_Come haste! Come haste! across the waste!_  
_The king of friend and kin has need._

Clutching Fíli’s hand, Dís felt like weeping as the words wound their way around her heart, longing for the soft embrace of her mother, the booming laugh of her father. Frís and Thraín had yearned, like Thorin had yearned, for Erebor, even if her Amad had been better at hiding it, and though Dís had never felt that same connection to the Lonely Mountain, the song and the sight of the solitary peak rising from its bed of snow ahead of them filled her with a curious longing for _home_.

 _Now call we over mountains cold,_  
_'Come back unto the caverns old'!_  
_Here at the Gates the king awaits,_  
_His hands are rich with gems and gold._

_The king is come unto his hall_  
_Under the Mountain dark and tall._  
_The Worm of Dread is slain and dead,_  
_And ever so our foes shall fall!_ **[318]**

Dís looked up at him when Fíli squeezed her hand, seeing the small tears that glittered in his beard, and suddenly she had the though that her son had not heard the old song sung with these new words either, had not really absorbed the idea that they _had_ fulfilled the promise once made, crossing the Misty Mountains and reclaiming the homeland of a whole people – not just for those he knew in Ered Luin, the scattered settlements eking a living along the broken range of the Blue Mountains, but for _all_ Dwarrow.

“You did not say that you were writing a song, Auntie,” Fíli said hoarsely. Geira smiled gently.

“I was the one who wrote the original,” she said softly, “I sung it first beneath the trees of Mirkwood, trying to give my people _hope_ … it seemed fitting that I write a new version, fulfilling that hope.”

“Sing it again,” Dís heard herself ask, surprising herself by adding the familiar endearment, “Auntie.”

Geira rewarded her with a smile so brilliant and loving that Dís had to look away, uncomfortable with that level of fondness from a virtual stranger. The elleth did not remark on her hesitance, opening her mouth to repeat the song as the Dwarrow around her joined in on subsequent repetitions until the whole group – including the Elven prince, which made Fíli smile – were singing as they trudged through the snow.

 

To those inside the mountain, the song was as much a surprise – and a gift, Thorin thought – as it had been to the weary travellers coming ever closer. Geira’s clear voice – joined by Legolas’ light baritone – was floating above a sea of deeper Dwarven voices, creating a pleasing harmony. His fingers itched for the harp that had been left in their quarters, but gripped Dwalin’s hand instead, as a smile spread across his face. Standing just beyond the Front Gates – Thorin had quietly decided it would be better that Dís saw her youngest first – he found himself humming along to the tune, memorising the unfamiliar verses as the group drew closer, and words became distinguishable.

_Now call we over mountains cold,_  
_'Come back unto the caverns old'!_  
_Here at the Gates the king awaits,_  
_His hands are rich with gems and gold._

_The king is come unto his hall_  
_Under the Mountain dark and tall._  
_The Worm of Dread is slain and dead,_  
_And ever so our foes shall fall!_

As the final verse came to a close, Thorin half wished that he had decked himself as splendidly as the song promised, casting a slightly rueful glance at Dwalin, whose soft smile remained aimed at the group that had just appeared, Dís the first one through the Front Gates along with a windswept Fíli. Thorin smiled but allowed Kíli to be the first to step towards her.

 

Kíli was waiting anxiously just inside the Front Gate, as Dís had almost expected. What she had not expected was the nearly fearful glance he shot her, fidgeting with his crutch in a way that told her he wanted to pace away some sort of agitation – a habit he shared with both Thorin and herself – though she couldn’t guess what. Fíli had kept to innocuous topics – rebuilding, supplies, the weather – as they walked, aware that they were not alone, and Dís wondered if she should have insisted he tell her _everything_.

Kíli squared his shoulders, glancing at her once more before hobbling slightly to the left and snatching up the hand of the Dwarf talking to Dori. Dís smiled at her old friend, frowning thoughtfully as she tried to parse her son’s behaviour. The Dwarf turned, and Dís recognised young Ori with a bit of a shock – Fíli was not the only one who had changed during the journey, she thought wryly, and then she noted the smile Ori was aiming at Kíli, whose face stretched in an equally soppy grin.

“You look like your Adad, Kíli,” Dís said, the words escaping of their own volition as she moved across the floor. Wrapping her strong arm around her youngest son, Dís distantly noted the added muscle on him, the last of boyhood softness disappearing.

“Amad?” Kíli asked, muffled by her hair.

“Ay, my wee one,” Dís whispered, pressing kisses into his hair. “I have missed you.” Pushing Kíli away from her to get a better look, she cupped his cheek, pressing their foreheads together. “I had not thought to find my youngest in love when I got here,” she murmured. Ori and Kíli both flushed brightly.

“Amad, I…” Kíli faltered a little. “Err… this is – this is my Ori. My One.”

“I know,” Dís replied, winking at him. “You look like your Adad, Kee,” she repeated, “the way he looked when he was standing next to me and worrying about what my Amad would say when I told her I intended to marry him – you _do_ intend to marry young Ori, do you not?” Raising a stern eyebrow, Dís looked from one blushing young dwarf to the other. Kíli rallied, reaching for Ori’s hand again and nodding decisively.

“I do, Amad, if Ori will have me.” Scarlet cheeks notwithstanding, he gazed back at her. Dís felt her face crack in a brilliant smile. Kíli drew a heavy breath of relief, tension released at this measure of approval.

“That’s settled, then,” Dís nodded, turning to face Ori, who did his best not to quail at her stern regard. He managed, though only by reminding himself that he had won over _Thorin_ – he would prove himself to the Princess, too, in due time. “Of course, I am already acquainted with Ori, son of Natfári and Lady Arnóra,” Dís continued, feeling a certain fiendish delight in tormenting her youngest; while Víli had certainly contributed to her sons’ mischievous streaks, Dís was no stranger to mischief herself.

“Princess Dís,” Ori greeted, bowing deeply, “Ori, Lord Companion of Erebor, at your service.”

“And do you think you are worthy of my son’s heart, Lord Ori?” Dís asked pleasantly, keeping her face inscrutable. Kíli paled. Ori, however, squared his shoulders and returned her frank gaze evenly.

“We are One,” he replied. “And I can do no more than offer Kíli my own heart, my support, and my love, and hope that we may build upon this bond for years to come.”

“Well said,” Dís nodded thoughtfully, lifting her hand to clasp Ori’s shoulder, pulling him close enough to press her forehead against his for a moment. “Welcome to our family.”

 

 

“I like her,” Legolas confided quietly, hanging back with Rhonith, whose eyes were glued to the small reunion before them. “She reminds me very much of her naneth – they share that fierce protective spirit.”

“Frís always said she saw herself in her daughter,” Rhonith agreed, wrapping her fingers around his and smiling at Thorin. She hadn’t had much chance to speak with the Princess herself, choosing instead to sing, bringing a new vigour to the weary steps of the travellers around her that had made Legolas smile, seeing the excitement on their bearded faces. “I wish she could have seen this,” Rhonith admitted. Legolas squeezed her hand comfortingly, unprepared for the way his heart jumped when she turned her face up to smile at him.

“I missed you,” he blurted, feeling a blush turn his ears red when she laughed brightly.

“I missed you, too,” Rhonith replied, squeezing his hand as she turned back to face Thorin once more, a smile playing around her mouth. Legolas blushed again when she squeezed his hand, her thumb drawing circles across his skin. He was reminded of Nori’s seemingly long-ago explanation of Dwarven courtships – _did this count as accepting his First Gift?_

 

Releasing the two youngsters, Dís turned to face the two standing a few meters further away, hands twined together.

“Brother.” Dís looked at him. The dark hair was plaited skilfully – she recognised Dwalin’s hand with a sense of relief, having expected more distance between them – and Thorin’s smile went some ways towards reassuring her that things were not so dire as she had half-feared. The blue eyes, their shadows a new kind, crinkled the same way when he smiled; reassuring as solid bedrock beneath her feet. The arm, of course, was startlingly _absent_ , but there was a certain calm in Thorin now, a calm she had not noticed as _missing_ , exactly, but now obviously _there._

Turning her eyes to Dwalin, Dís noted his smile, carrying no strain around the edges though his eyes still had a touch of sorrow visible only to someone who knew him well. She drew a breath of relief; Legolas had told her that the two Dwarrow had mended their rift, but she had felt a frisson of doubt right up until the moment she saw them, standing close together at the throne dais waiting to welcome her people.

“Sister.” Thorin said, his voice grave for a moment before the happiness split his face in a smile. “Welcome to Erebor.” Throwing his arm out, he offered her closeness, and Dís leapt at the embrace.

“Thorin…” she mumbled, a lump suddenly blocking her throat as she buried her face in his shoulder. Thorin’s arm wrapped just as tightly around her shoulders, clutching her as though he had to convince himself she had truly arrived. “You _did_ it.”

“Welcome home, Dís,” he whispered into her hair, his voice wobbly with emotion as he held her. “We’re home, Dís, _home_ …” The low words, fervent as only Thorin could be, reminded her of a day more than a year ago, when he had first told her that he had met a wizard in Bree, rekindling the fire that she had first seen in her Adad, and known to be the cause of his death. Dís shivered lightly, holding him as tightly as she could. _Home_. Home, to her, had been Ered Luin for so long, had been the rooms Víli had once made; the house Thorin had built, the village her sons had grown up exploring…

And still, somehow, like a snatch of melody from a long-forgotten cradle-song, Erebor already felt familiar.

 

 

 

 

[318] Song by J.R.R. Tolkien

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> relatively short chapter, but it felt like the natural end point...
> 
> I'm trying to edit/rewrite the first chapters a bit(getting rid of the wall-of-text infestation mostly), and somehow this fic got 3k longer by chapter 2 o.O, ??


	69. Reunions 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might combine this with the previous chapter... later.

“Adad, adad!” The small voice cried out as soon as Athalrún and her dwarflings made it through the Front Gate, trailing some ways behind Dís; Fjelarún was still fast asleep in her sister’s arms, but Blákur had to give up keeping a grip on Borkur’s hand, instead throwing an apologetic glance back at his amad and running along with his little brother.

Bombur knelt, spreading his arms wide to catch them when the two boys slammed into him.

“Ahh, my wee lads,” he mumbled hoarsely, hugging them both tight. “Let me look at you, aye?” he asked, holding each youngster away from him for a moment to study their faces – so changed, yet also the same as the ones he had left. Tears spilled down his cheeks, bring them in close for another hug.

“Look, Bifur, it’s our wee nephews,” Bofur grinned, elbowing his cousin.

“Uncle Bof! Uncle Bif!” Blákur cried, abandoning his adad to hug his uncles.

“Ahh, I missed you, laddies,” Bofur muttered, picking him up in a bone-cracking hug.

“Bombur,” Athalrún said, smiling at him as she pushed the older dwarflings towards their father.

“Adad!” Bolbur sobbed into his shoulder, his hand clenched tight around Bombur’s beard braid. Blidarún followed, her eyes shiny as she joined the hug, little Fjelarún waking in the commotion.

“Look, Blee!” she shrieked, “It’s Adad!”

Bombur did not think his arms were wide enough to hold his whole family, but he could not bear the thought of letting any of them go, either, gathering each of his dwarflings up in his arms, pressing kisses against their hair.

“I missed you all so, so much,” he promised, “I love you.”

Raising his head to look at Athalrún, he was once again struck by the beauty of her smile, watching him hold all their dwarflings – except… frantically, he stared at her, letting go of the dwarflings to take that final step towards her, wrapping his thick arms around her.

“Oh, Bombur,” Athalrún whispered, leaning heavily against him as the fear and fatigue of the many months she had spent without him found release as sobs, wetting his chest.

“Aye, luslasul,” he murmured into her dark curls, “I am here, we’re _all_ here, safe and sound and together.”

Pushing off the furs that hung from her shoulders, revealing the small body strapped to her chest, Athalrún looked up at him, that same soft smile on her face that he had last seen when she introduced him to Borkur. Bombur breathed shakily, raising one hand to tug the swaddling away from the small face.

“This is Bomba,” Athalrún murmured, leaning against him as their pebble blinked blearily up at them. “Our daughter, amrâlimê.”

Bombur caught the tiny fingers with his own, chuckling softly at the strength of her grip. “Hello, wee Bomba,” he murmured softly, “I’m your Adad, and I’m very glad to meet you.” The small fingers wrapped unerringly around the large ring-braid that rested on his belly, making Athalrún laugh and lean up to kiss him. Bomba smiled sleepily, smacking her lips a few times before falling asleep once more.

“You’re well, **Buknakun**[1],” Athalrún asked, her own fingers wrapping around that braid. Bombur’s arms squeezed her plump shape tightly.

“I am – now,” he muttered, kissing her gently, “I was so worried about you; all of you.”

“We’re fine, amrâlimê,” she whispered back, nodding towards Bofur – who was currently at the bottom of a pile of excited dwarflings, his bad foot entirely forgotten – and Bifur, who had both Borkur and Fjelarún in his arms where he sat next to his cousin, his smile soft as he listened to them babble about their journey. “We’re all… fine.” Staggering slightly as a powerful wave of relief washed over her – _how many times had she dreamed them maimed or dead or eaten?_ – Athalrún clung to her husband. Bombur gripped her just as strongly, the echo of relief he felt making his blood sing with joy that he had _all_ of his family with him, now, within sight and _reach_. He swallowed hard, tightening his hold on Athalrún and buried his face in her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of _home_ that was his wife.

“Maralmizu, **luslasul**[2] **,** ” Bombur murmured, tilting Athalrún’s face up for another kiss, this time conveying all his longing and worry. Athalrún’s fist clenched tight around the marriage braid in his hair, their youngest daughter sleeping peacefully in her arm as she returned the kiss passionately.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo stood separately, slightly forgotten, and stared at the family reunions taking place before his eyes. Thorin and his sister, Fíli, Kíli, Dwalin, and Balin were all clustered together, arms tight around one another in a way that made him miss his parents badly, though not so badly as the sight of Bombur greeting his dwarflings. Staring at the dark-haired dwarrowdam who peppered his face in kisses, Bilbo tried to see any family resemblance between himself and the dwobbit. Physically – the plump body; somewhat diminished by the trek he assumed, just as Bombur himself – Athalrún did not look particularly Hobbit-y, although she would have been considered very comely in the Shire, he thought, provided one ignored the beard that feathered along her jaw. Her eyes, however, seen only for a moment as she glanced past Bombur’s bulk towards where Bofur and Bifur were playing with the horde of dwarflings in a way that reminded him of being a faunt – one of his best friends had been one of seven and Bilbo had always envied the idea of a large number of siblings, even if his Took cousins almost counted as brothers – seemed distinctly Hobbit to him, the leafy colour common to the Proudfeet of his acquaintance as well as a few Tooks. The dark chocolate curls would have been the envy of many a Hobbit-lass, he thought, picturing Athalrún wearing the ribbons and flower crowns of a Hobbit lady in summertime with a small smile tinged with homesickness.

“You are well, Master Baggins?” Rhonith asked quietly, coming to a stop beside him, the taller form of Prince Legolas just behind her shoulder, giving him a gentle look of concern. Bilbo nodded, his throat feeling a little tight.

“Just…” he said, waving towards the happy families reunited before him. Somehow, he had never before considered how alone he truly was among the Company; all of them had had at least one close relation by their side throughout the Quest.

“Missing your own kin,” she finished for him, her blue eyes following his gaze to encompass both Thorin’s tight group of family and Bombur’s larger sprawl. She smiled, melancholy, and turned back to him with a light nod. “I have not forgotten my promise, Bilbo,” she said quietly, “as soon as you are ready.” Then the sadness vanished, replaced by a soft smile. “For now, however,” she murmured, looking over his shoulder, “I think your most distant of cousins want to introduce you to someone.”

Bilbo turned, suddenly apprehensive; the three ‘ur’s were grinning widely at him, Bombur still looking a little teary-eyed next to his wife.

 _They are my family_ , he told himself sternly, though he felt distantly grateful for the slight nudge she gave him, prodding his feet into moving towards the dark-haired dwarrowdam who was apparently his cousin.

Bilbo took a deep breath and plastered a smile on his face.

“You must be Athalrún,” he said, holding out his hand nervously, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

 

“A Hobbit?” Athalrún breathed. “Dís told me there was a Hobbit Burglar on the Quest, but I admit I did not truly believe her!” Laughing, she took Bilbo’s hand, shaking it enthusiastically.

“This is Bilbo Baggins, my love,” Bombur introduced quietly. “Near as we can figure, he’s your third cousin thrice removed. Your Great-Great-Great-Uncle Rorimac’s grandson some generations down.”

“My… cousin?” Frowning, she studied him. Bilbo rocked back on his bare heels, twisting his fingers behind his back as he gazed back, returning her frank assessment. She was pretty, up close, even though the weariness of travel was obvious in her face, her button nose crinkling when she smiled at him in a way that reminded him of his grandfather, Gerontius Took.

“Bilbo, son of Bungo,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat and copying the Dwarven style of introductions that had so puzzled him when he first met the Company in Bag End – something that seemed a lot longer ago than it really was, “at your service.” Athalrún chuckled, her eyes crinkling along with her nose.

“Athalrún, daughter of Athalhilda,” she replied, dropping into a quick curtsey, “at yours and your family’s… cousin.”

Bilbo smiled.

“Look laddies,” Bofur exclaimed, coming up behind him and clapping Bilbo hard on the shoulder, “you have a Hobbit-cousin now!”

Suddenly, Bilbo found himself swarmed by Dwarflings, each as curious and questioning as any faunt of his acquaintance. The similarities between them made him laugh.

“How’s he our cousin?” One asked, though Bilbo wasn’t sure which dwarfling had spoken.

“He doesn’t look like us,” another replied thoughtfully, “except the curls, they’re like Blákur’s only different colours.”

“Look at his feet, Bork!” the smallest girl cried, catching her brother’s hand and staring. “They’re hairy, just like Sigin’amad said!”

“Why doesn’t he have a beard, Adad?”

“He’s not wearing our family braids, Amad!”

“Do you think his hair’s long enough for braiding, Blee?”

Inundated by the barrage of questions, Bilbo couldn’t help but smile, feeling a ball of warmth growing in his stomach at the sound of their enthusiasm. He did not miss Bofur’s quiet voice in his ear, however:

“I told you they’d adore having a Hobbit cousin, Bilbo Baggins.” Turning his head, Bilbo caught the flash of Bofur’s cheeky smile before it disappeared behind the hat that his nephew had just pulled down over his face, cackling madly.

“Welcome to our family, cousin,” Bombur said, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder with a smile, his other arm still wrapped around his wife.

“Alright, my little loves,” Athalrún said calmly – Bilbo was surprised by the nearly instant silence in the throng of his newfound admirers, “line up and tell Cousin Bilbo your names, aye? Won’t want your new cousin thinking I’ve raised a bunch of squawking birdies, hmm?”

“Yes, Amad,” they chorused obediently. Athalrún smiled, touching the tallest of the dwarflings milling around her.

“I’m Bolbur, blacksmith,” he said, bowing politely, the same dark brown curls as his mother’s falling into his eyes, “at your service.”

“I’m Blidarún,” the red-headed one beside him said. If not for the fine beard she sported, she would have fit in with a crowd of young Hobbits in the Shire, Bilbo thought, giving her a small smile. “I’m a healer’s apprentice.” Bilbo almost chuckled; she could never be mistaken for anyone but a daughter of Bombur’s, even if she was shorter than both her parents by several inches.

“I’m Blákur,” the third one said, bowing, his pure black hair gleaming in the torchlight. “I’m going to be a scribe.”

“I’m Fjelarún,” the second copper-haired one said; her hair was more auburn than her sister’s but the resemblance to her mother showed in her fine facial features. “Are you really a Hobbit like in the story?” she asked, frowning slightly.

“I am,” Bilbo replied, amused when the confirmation made her elbow Blákur and ‘whisper’ a haughty I-told-you-so at him.

“I’m Bork!” the smallest one claimed, jumping up and down excitedly, “I’m …-” he counted on his fingers, holding up six stubby digits with a proud smile, “- 6 years big!”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Bork,” Bilbo replied. “You are indeed a very big boy.”

“I was little,” Borkur – his father whispering the name over his head with a soft smile – informed him seriously, “but then Bomba came, and now _she’s_ littler!”

“This is Bomba,” Athalrún interjected, caressing the small face that was almost hidden by Bombur’s beard, the little girl chewing sleepily on the hair as she gazed calmly at the commotion around her.

“Yes…” Bilbo said, staring; she looked – aside from the lack of pointiness to her ears – exactly like all other faunts he had seen, no visible evidence of her Dwarven parents whatsoever. “I remember there was a ceremony in Rivendell at one point, even though no one explained why we were staying up all night.”

“You did?” Athalrún asked, turning to smile at her husband. Bombur blushed deeply.

“Of course, we did, luslasul,” he rumbled, squeezing her gently. Athalrún rose on tiptoes, pressing a kiss against one red cheek.

“Thank you.” Bombur simply hummed something deep in his throat, turning his head to press a kiss to her temple. Bilbo felt quite certain he was missing something, but there’d be time for stories later; the bell was ringing, calling the inhabitants of the Mountain to the Main Hall. Bilbo’s rumbling stomach convinced him it was food time, and with Bofur’s arm around his shoulders, little Borkur wearing his hat as he rested in his uncle’s arms, and Fjelarún’s small hand hanging onto Bilbo’s, he felt surrounded by strangers and family all at once.

Glancing at Rhonith, standing by the wall – _holding hands with Legolas?_ – Bilbo exchanged a fleeting smile with the elleth before turning to answer one of Fjelarún’s never-ending questions.

 

* * *

 

“Gimmers!” Kíli exclaimed, catching sight of his younger cousin standing next to Glóin, he and Auntie Vár both staring at the sheer largesse that was the entrance to Erebor proper. Wobbling over swiftly, using the crutch like he had always needed one, he caught Gimli up in a proper kin-blessing, leaving Dís to Uncle Thorin, who was muttering something about keeping his Oath into her hair.

“Kíli!” Gimli replied, smiling widely. Then his eyes dropped, taking in the missing leg. Kíli flushed; he still wasn’t used to the way people who had known him before the Battle would automatically do a doubletake when they realised that he had lost a limb, but he rallied nonetheless, smiling at Gimli.

“Oh, Kíli,” Vár said softly, and then she was hugging him tight, “I’m so happy to see you, Kíli-lad,” she murmured. The bundle strapped to her chest made a sound of discontent at being squished, which made Vár laugh and undo the cloak that kept her pebble warm, letting Kíli meet his tiniest cousin for the first time.

“Pretty, like her Amad,” Glóin rumbled proudly, watching Vár hand the pebble to Kíli, who did his best to balance Várdís in one arm and his crutch in the other.

“Yes, Glóin,” Kíli smiled widely. “Congratulations.” Glóin beamed at him, squeezing Vár in a proud one-armed hug. It was the first time she had let anyone hold their small daughter without looking like she wanted to snatch the pebble back immediately, and Glóin felt a sense of relief at the thought. She only managed a few minutes, but Kíli handed Várdís back without protest, looking a little relieved that he no longer had to worry about dropping her.

“But I see our little one is not the only recent addition to the family,” Vár said, giving Kíli a shrewd look that made him blush brightly. Glóin stared. Then it clicked.

“You and Ori?” he asked, staring from one to the other; Ori was talking to Fíli a bit further ahead as they all began moving towards the Food Hall. Kíli nodded shyly.

“You… and _Ori_?!” Gimli giggled, copying his father’s look, “But you always used to call him dull!”

“Ori isn’t dull!” Kíli defended hotly, scowling at his shorter cousin. “He’s clever, and funny, and pretty, and nice, and he’s my One!” Going bright red at the final declaration, which had steadily increased in volume with each trait listed, Kíli stared at Ori who turned around to look back at him, a smile spreading on his face. Around them, Dwarrow were chuckling lightly; Kíli’s declaration had pierced the low hum of many voices, leaving it unheard by none of the people milling around him. Ducking his head, Kíli turned to glare at Gimli, whose smile grew even wider.

“Good on you, coz,” he said quietly, reaching out to squeeze Kíli’s hand. “Good on you.”

 

* * *

 

Óin, who had been watching his brother and his family with a soft smile on his face – he had hung back; overly emotional reunions in public were not his style – suddenly stiffened. He stared. Glóin had moved slightly, revealing the shorter form of the dwarf standing behind him.

“Vakri…” he whispered, hardly believing his eyes; Vakri had never meant to join the resettlement of Erebor, and Óin truly had not expected to see the Dwarf he considered his son for years after he left Ered Luin.

Glóin’s appearance near Rivendell had made Vakri less worried about Vár, certainly, but even though he reported that all those who had joined the Quest were hearty and reasonably healthy, it was not until he actually stood in the entry to the Lonely Mountain that he dared believe the reports to be true.

“Óin…” Vakri whispered to himself, looking past all the reunions – several of the Dwarrow who had come with the caravan had friends or distant relations among the inhabitants of Erebor – his eyes locked on only one Dwarf.

“Vakri!” Óin exclaimed, breaking into a run as his voice made the young dwarf look up, a slightly hesitant smile on his face.

The old healer moved swiftly, more swiftly than most would have thought him capable of, the hearing horn dangling from its chain around his neck as he ran across the green stone floor, nearly skidding on the smooth flagstones in his haste.

Vakri caught him, pressing their foreheads together as small tears slowly travelled into his beard.

“I’m sorry, Adad,” he babbled, “I couldn’t – the little one, he – he wasn’t breathing, and I… I couldn’t save him.” Sobbing into Óin’s shoulder he continued to mumble apologies.

Óin held on just as tightly, not even noticing that the words he mumbled were all the ones he had failed to say aloud so many moons ago when he left Vakri with the keys to the Healing House in far-away Ered Luin.

“Oh, lad,” Óin mumbled, trying to make sense of the torrent of words, “I’m certain you did all you could, son.”

The loss of a pebble was hard on everyone, but few realised the weight of guilt such a death put on the shoulders of the healer who failed in the task set him. Rocking him, like Vakri was once more that 30-yearold dwarfling he had found abandoned, Óin hummed soothingly.

Looking up, he caught his brother’s eye, the soft smile on Glóin’s face more than eloquent; his brother had wondered, before, why Óin had not adopted Vakri, had treated him as a nephew regardless, and the smug look in his eyes were Óin’s first clue that he had finally admitted the truth that had always been written in his heart.

“Hush now, lad, let me look at you,” Óin mumbled, pushing Vakri away slightly to study his face for a moment and then pulling him back into a hard hug. Vakri’s arms wrapped tightly around his back, his face hiding in Óin’s shoulder as he felt relief turn his bones light; Óin would not blame him for the death of little Glovarin. “My Vakri-lad,” Óin mumbled fervently, “I have missed you terribly.”

Vakri looked up, sniffling as he tried to still his tears. “I’m glad you’re well,” he whispered, “I missed you too, Adad.”

Óin felt tears press against his own eyes, wrapping his arms around his son as tightly as he could, hardly aware of the way Glóin joined their hug, or Vár patting his shoulder.

 

 

[1] Tiny-dawn, nickname.

[2] Tiny-rose, nickname

**Author's Note:**

> I'll try to reply/answer all comments/questions and feedback is always welcome - it makes my writing better ;)
> 
> The rest of this series is comprised of small stories concerning character background/history and the like. This means that they can be read independently of the main story, and will explain/expand things touched on in this tale.  
> Currently this includes:  
> Carving a Door - the story of Celebrimbor/Narví and their unconventional romance  
> The Birth of Madness - How did Thrór lose himself so completely?  
> Leaving Home - the final night before the Journey begins, as seen through the eyes of the Company, as well as the ones they leave behind.  
> The Dwarf and the Hobbit - I claim that Bombur's wife is a Dwobbit, and this is the story of how that happened, including how exactly she is related to Bilbo Baggins  
> The Guard and the Song - how Bifur ended up with an axe in his head and speaking nothing but gibberish to the ears of his kin  
> Shadows and Mirrors - When Thorin met Gandalf in Bree  
> Naragfahnzunshûn - Nori is a Thief... or is he?  
> The Rivals - The first meeting of Thorin and Dwalin was hardly love at first sight.  
> Pebble or Flower - just what happened when Frís was lost as a child?  
> Prince of Greenwood - the saga of Thranduil & Nínimeth, from the first meeting to the formation of a Kingdom and the devastation of the War of the Last Alliance and all the way to the shores of the Undying Lands.  
> And more...


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